by Sam Cabot
“No.” Pietro interrupted her. “They’ve claimed nothing, in fact they’ve tried to hide it. Spencer saw it happen.”
“Spencer George? He saw? What did he see?”
The waiter placed Rosa’s chocolate in front of her and backed discreetly away. The cup sat untouched as Rosa listened to Pietro’s narrative of a cold night in a park in the heart of the giant metropolis, where, according to Spencer George, a man had turned into a wolf.
When Pietro was finished Rosa said nothing, but lifted her cup to her lips and sipped. The sweet warmth of the drink broke the spell. It was a seductive tale; but it was nonsense. “Spencer George was injured. He was hallucinating.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“You may not. There it is nonetheless.”
“The young woman who was killed—”
“Was killed by a madman of one kind or another. A tragic story, but an old one.”
“I disagree.”
“Professor Pietro, have you seen this Shift, as you call it?”
“No.”
“Until you do, please don’t spread unsubstantiated rumors. Especially from an academic, it’s bad form. Furthermore, if this is a phenomenon you’re requesting that the Conclave investigate, as is your right, I still don’t understand why you felt compelled to contact me directly.”
“I’m most emphatically not asking the Conclave to investigate. That’s part of the point. I’m calling you because when I was Summoned before the Conclave you were the Counsellor most forcefully opposed to Unveiling. You insisted vehemently and categorically that revealing ourselves would result in disaster for our people.”
“That encounter was not so long ago that I’ve either forgotten it, or changed my opinion. What of it?”
“Assuming for the sake of argument that what Spencer saw was real and these men do have this Power, it’s both contrary to their Law and a genuine danger to them to reveal their existence. As it would be for us. In fact I’m directly contravening their Law by calling you, although I do it with the approval of one of them.”
“I do not accept your assumption, but since you apparently do, let me ask, then, why you’re calling at all?”
“Because a greater danger is imminent and I need your help.”
“What danger?”
Again, Rosa listened as Pietro described a scenario that, if it were to come to pass, would admittedly be horrible. Men and women with no experience of powers simultaneously vast and subtle suddenly invested with them, with the changes in perception they brought and the alterations in consciousness that went along with them. Rosa was taken back to her own beginnings, when her new Blessings and dark needs appeared simultaneously, with no warning, no guidance, no way to understand.
“Many will not survive, I’m told,” Pietro said. “Some will, but be unable to choose rationally how and when to apply their Powers—a terrible form of insanity. Many lives will be forever changed, irrevocably destroyed. But that’s not the worst.”
“And what is the worst?”
“It will be the same as it would be with us. Once it’s known this can happen, once people become aware that it’s the natives of this country who carry the gene that makes it possible, and especially in view of the chaos this ill-considered Awakening will unleash, there will be disaster on a grand scale. You spoke about the fires coming for us once again. They’ll come here, too. The killing mobs, people who’ve been wronged screaming for blood, and people full of fear, and soon after, people whom the destruction hasn’t touched but who are all too willing to seize a chance to brutalize and kill. Unlike with us, the Power to Shift doesn’t convey immortality or anything near it. The stories say Shifters are difficult to kill, but the truth of that depends on their skills and abilities in their animal forms. Most of these people will have none. In our case, only the fires can harm us, and to escape them is to survive. But a Shifter can be captured, hurt, and destroyed in any of the ways an Unchanged can. And of course, as it was when the Noantri were the target of violent persecutions, many people who aren’t Shifters will be hunted and killed, caught up in the panic and the frenzy.
“And something more. Like ours, the Shifters’ difference is based in their physical natures, in their genes. To fear government-decreed mass arrests and imprisonment, and human experimentation—especially considering the history of this country regarding its First Peoples—is not to go too far.”
Rosa sighed and sipped her chocolate. “You’re an eloquent speaker, Livia Pietro. All those years of trying to motivate undergraduates, I would suppose. The picture you paint is quite dark but you haven’t yet explained my place in it.”
“The men who plan to perform this Ceremony have hidden themselves. I’m not sure we can find them to stop them. But they need a specific artifact, an ancient mask. Or at least, they believe they need it, which amounts to the same thing. The murder of the young woman came about when they tried to obtain the mask, but the one at the auction house is a fake. They’re looking for the real one. Signora Cartelli, they must be stopped.”
“I assume you’ve come to the point where I learn why I’m involved.”
“Yes. Spencer and Father Kelly have followed the trail of the real mask to Il Gesù, in Rome.”
“The mask is here?”
“It may be. Certainly, information on the last man known to have possessed it is there. He was a Jesuit priest who lived in the early eighteenth century in what was then called New France. A certain Père Ravenelle, on a mission to the Iroquois. The information that could lead to the authentic mask is in the secret archives at Il Gesù. Even Father Kelly can’t get at it.”
“A circumstance which has fueled your suspicions, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“But your nemeses, they can?”
“I don’t know. They may be able to, or they may find the mask another way. For us, this is the only path we see.”
Rosa finished her chocolate, watching dusk settle over her beloved Rome. Four millennia, and the problems of people living in this world never got any easier. People Changed or Unchanged—or, barely possibly, Other. She wrapped her cashmere scarf more tightly as a breeze came up.
“What you want me to do, then, is send someone to burrow into Il Gesù to unearth this material.”
“That’s it exactly. But without informing the Conclave. I realize this puts you in a difficult position. But as I said—”
“Yes, yes. Whatever I choose to do will be my own responsibility.” Rosa took another long pause. “Very well. Although I seriously doubt the veracity of this claim to shapeshifting powers, the consequences you describe are too dire to be ignored. On the possibility that there is truth in this story, I will help you. After the danger has passed we will discuss the necessity of Conclave involvement. In the unlikely event that what you say is true, this is not a secret you have the right to keep.”
“I understand that. As does my Shifter friend. But many delicate issues will have to be involved in that deliberation.”
“As you say. So we will proceed with an attempt to resolve the current situation. But Livia Pietro, sending someone to Il Gesù is unlikely to serve your purpose.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s true there are Jesuits among the Noantri, and two, I believe, with access at a level high enough to penetrate the secret archives. Neither of them is at the moment in Rome. I can call them here, and will. But the urgency of your situation indicates you haven’t time to wait. However, there is another way.”
“What way?”
“In 1497 a ship sailed for the New World from Bristol, in England. Her captain was a man whose name has come down through history as John Cabot, but who was by birth an Italian called Giovanni Caboto. He had been some time in England then because he was Cloaking.”
“He was one of us?”
“Yes. And he too
k with him on his voyage another Noantri, an Augustinian friar calling himself Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis. Carbonariis’s Change came about in the second century, when he was a monastic in a Christian hermetic order near Jerusalem. By the time he sailed with Cabot he had begun to feel oppressed by both the collective nature of the religious society in which he lived, and the growing communal aspects of Noantri life. John Cabot returned to England within a year, later feigning death in a shipwreck. He has since taken other identities in succession. But Carbonariis remained. He is still there.”
48
Standing on the shoulder of the highway, Livia drew a breath, digesting what Rosa Cartelli had just told her. Michael stood some distance away, outlined against the sky. “Signora Cartelli,” Livia said, “this man, Father Carbonariis—he was here when the Indian nations were thriving? He was here when this Ceremony was regularly performed?”
“If there ever was such a Ceremony, yes. If there is a mask such as the one you describe, and if it was last seen in the hands of a Jesuit missionary to the Iroquois, chances are good that Carbonariis can shed light on its travels.”
“Can you put us in touch?”
“Why would I have mentioned him otherwise? But Livia Pietro, take care. Carbonariis’s dedication to his Church and his loyalty to the Noantri are both intense, but they are matched—overshadowed, possibly—by his devotion to the peoples he first encountered in the New World. In today’s parlance one might say he had ‘gone native.’ I’ll contact him and order him to speak with you and he will obey, but he will not thank me. Carbonariis is a recluse, living in the dwindling but still untamed forest of what is now Canada. He has never embraced the joys of Community.”
“Never embraced—he’s an Old Way Noantri?” Livia said in wonder. “They do exist, then? I’ve only heard stories.”
“As always in this world, some stories are fabrications and others are true. There are indeed Old Way Noantri. As to the story you’ve just told me, I’ve no idea into which category it falls. I’ll have Carbonariis speak with you. But know this: Carbonariis will help only to the extent that he believes what you want will benefit the native peoples. If he sees a threat to them, he’ll disappear. That would be a cause of great dismay for the Conclave. Old Way Noantri are not required to come into Community but they are forbidden to feed as they did before the Concordat. If Carbonariis feels it’s in the best interests of the native peoples for him to vanish, he may break off contact with the Conclave and return to his original ways. Under various circumstances other Old Way Noantri have done the same. This exposes us all to an unacceptable danger of discovery. If he chooses that path, Carbonariis will be dealt with in whatever way the Conclave deems necessary. That danger to the Noantri, and the consequences to Carbonariis, are things for which you, Livia Pietro, would be answerable. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Livia shivered in the cold wind; then, in a voice that she hoped sounded stronger than she felt, she said, “I do understand, and I’ll be very careful how I approach Father Carbonariis. Signora, how soon can you reach him?”
“He has no modern conveniences, of course. I’ll call the intermediary who delivers his provisions. She’ll have to go to him, but once in the woods she can travel as fast as she might. It should not take long.”
“Signora Cartelli, thank you. For your help, and for believing me. As I say, I know asking you to keep a secret like this—”
“As you say, you’ve said that. I shall be in touch. Salve.”
Driving down the highway, Livia turned the heat up in the car and told Michael about Cartelli, the Conclave, and what little she knew of Father Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis. “You heard from Spencer how we feel most comfortable when we live in physical proximity to each other. But as with anything, there are exceptions. Certain Noantri—no more than a few dozen, I think—who were made hundreds, in some cases thousands, of years before the Concordat allowed for the possibility of Community, have never given up their solitary lives. They live as recluses, as hermits. They’re required to abide by the provisions of the Concordat and so they’re supplied with . . .” She faltered, wondering if Michael’s reaction to her reality, to Spencer’s, was anything like Thomas Kelly’s had been when he’d first learned.
“Blood.” Surprising her, Michael grinned. “I’m a biologist, I’m a doctor, I’m an Indian, and I’m a shapeshifter. You think a little blood is going to bother me?”
She smiled back. “They’re given supplies of blood and they’re forbidden from feeding as they used to or making new Noantri without Conclave permission. Beyond that they’re left alone and their identities and locations are closely guarded. I’ve never met one of them and I don’t know anyone who has.”
“When was this Father Carbonariis—the word is ‘made’?”
“In the second century. He was a hermit even then. By the time he came here he was an Augustinian friar, and apparently he’d made it clear he had no interest in Community.”
“And he’s been here since? Your process of going somewhere else, changing identities—he hasn’t done that?”
“I suppose if you live deep in the forests of Canada you don’t have to.”
Michael said nothing in answer to that, just sat and watched charcoal clouds slip through the iron sky. Livia, used to his silences by now, stayed quiet as she drove, feeling the soft shifting tugs as the road curved and curved again against the rocky hillside. As they started the descent to the river Michael said, “Carbonariis would have been here at first contact. Before the diseases, before the slaughter. He’d have heard the lost languages. Heard the songs, and seen the dances.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe, when this is over . . . Do you think he’ll sit with me? Tell me what he remembers?”
“I don’t know. All we can do is ask him.”
Michael nodded. Livia watched the river come closer, saw Manhattan rising in steel cliffs to answer the stone ones of the Palisades. As they reached the George Washington Bridge Livia’s phone rang. She slipped the earpiece in and answered it.
“Professor Pietro,” came Rosa Cartelli’s dry voice. “It seems there may be some truth to your story after all.”
“Carbonariis says that?”
“Carbonariis says nothing. I reached his contact in Halifax. Carbonariis has gone to New York.”
“To New York? A recluse from the woods of Canada?”
“It seems so. His contact was quite surprised and asked him why. He told her there was a mask he wanted to see.”
49
Charlotte threw her pen down on the scratched steel desk. She’d rather have punched out the computer but the Department didn’t like it when you broke the technology. She and Framingham had spent a frustrating morning running down the list Brittany Williams’s furious father and tearful mother had supplied of their daughter’s ex-boyfriends. Ostrander and Sun had been in the same business; among the four of them they’d been out on half a dozen interviews covering all five boroughs (Brooklyn twice) and made dozens of phone calls. The first set of calls was to ascertain that some of these exes lived far away and the second set, more roundabout, was to make sure they actually were far away right now.
“Before goddamn cell phones,” Charlotte said to no one in particular, “when a cop called a guy in Buffalo and he answered the phone that was all you needed to know.”
“Scuse me, child, but how do you know that?” Ostrander asked mildly, not looking up from his computer screen. “You and Matt were born with cell phones in your hands.”
“She was,” said Sun. “Matt was born with the tricorder to call the mother ship.”
Framingham hurled his pencil across the room and Sun, with a practiced move, ducked.
Charlotte got up and poured herself the burnt dregs of the coffee. She dropped behind her desk again and scrolled through the preliminary forensics report, hoping something would jump out at
her. Nothing she saw was any more useful than it had been the first four times. All the blood was Brittany’s, and though the room was plastered with fingerprints, the ones they’d checked so far all belonged to Sotheby’s personnel or consultants. Which didn’t mean someone with a right to be there hadn’t killed her, but it did mean if that’s what had happened you couldn’t prove it by fingerprints. One of the ME’s people thought he had some anomalous DNA in the rip in her throat, but he couldn’t even tell if it was human, and Charlotte was ready to strangle him when he admitted that a musk perfume, or sloppy kisses from her poufy little dog, would have left those kinds of traces.
“Well,” Sun said, looking up, “I might have something. Charlotte, don’t take this wrong.”
“Screw you.”
Sun nodded as though she’d agreed to be reasonable. “I was going back through these guys. Her exes. Her father can’t tell them apart but he says one of them obviously did it and since they’re all goddamn leeches they should all be shot.”
“It’s good to be the king,” Framingham said.
“Her mother, though, seems to have memorized each one. If it were my mother that would be because she was already naming the grandchildren. She gave me a complete roster.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been working from?”
“Yes, but get this. In college Brittany dated a guy named Stan Miller.”
“I called him,” Ostrander interrupted. “He’s in Omaha.”
“That’s not the point. He’s Chippewa.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes but said nothing.