Maybe I’m already insane.
She rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Even the ceramic tiles beneath her feet radiated heat. Throwing open the shutters, she gazed across the tiny piazza, at buildings baking like stone ovens in the sun. A golden haze leafed domes and rooftops in umber. The summer heat had driven the sensible locals of Siena indoors; only the tourists would be out now, wandering wide-eyed through narrow alleys, huffing and sweating their way up the steep incline to the basilica or posing for photographs on the Piazza del Campo, their shoe soles melting and tacky on the scorching brickwork: all the usual tourist things that she herself had done when she’d first arrived in Siena, before she’d settled into the rhythms of the natives, before the heat of August had closed in on this medieval city.
Below her window, on the piazzetta, not a soul moved. But as she was turning away, she spied a twitch of motion in the shadow of a doorway. She went very still, her gaze fixed on the spot. I can’t see him. Can he see me? Then the inhabitant sheltering in that doorway emerged from its hiding place, trotted across the piazzetta, and vanished.
Only a dog.
With a laugh, she turned from the window. Not every shadow hid a monster. But some did. Some shadows follow you, threaten you, wherever you go.
In her tiny bathroom she splashed lukewarm water on her face, pulled back her dark hair in a ponytail. She did not waste time with makeup; over the past year, she had shed any habits that slowed her down. She lived out of one small suitcase plus a backpack, owned only two pairs of shoes, her sandals and sneakers. Jeans and T-shirts and sweaters took her from the heat of summer to the sleet of winter. When you got right down to it, survival was all a matter of layering, whether it was with clothes or emotional defenses. Keep out the elements, ward off attachments.
Stay safe.
She grabbed her backpack and stepped out of the room into the gloomy hallway. There she paused, as she always did, and inserted a torn bit of cardboard matchstick into the lower jamb as she closed the door and locked it. Not that the ancient lock would keep anyone out. Like the building, it was probably centuries old.
Bracing herself for the heat, she walked outside, into the piazzetta. She paused, scanning the deserted space. It was still too early for most locals to be out and about, but in another hour or so, they would stir from their meal-induced naps and start back to their shops, their offices. Lily still had some time to herself before Giorgio expected her back at work. It was a chance to walk and clear away the cobwebs, to visit her favorite haunts in her favorite city. She had been in Siena only three months, and already she could feel the town slipping away from her. Soon she’d have to leave it, as she’d left every other place she’d loved.
I have stayed here too long already.
She walked through the piazzetta and headed up the narrow alley leading to Via di Fontebranda. Her route took her toward the town’s ancient fountain house, past buildings that once housed medieval craftsmen and later slaughterhouses. The Fontebranda was a Siena landmark once celebrated by Dante, and its waters were still clear, still inviting, even after the passage of centuries. She had walked here once beneath the full moon. According to legend, that was when werewolves came to bathe in the waters, just before transforming back to their human forms. That night, she’d glimpsed no werewolves, only drunken tourists. Perhaps they were one and the same.
Moving up the hill now, her sturdy sandals slapping against griddle-hot stones, she walked past the Sanctuary and House of Saint Catherine, the patron saint of Siena, who had survived for long periods on no other food but the Blessed Sacrament. Saint Catherine had experienced vivid visions of Hell and Purgatory and Heaven, and had lusted for the glory and divine agony of martyrdom. After a long and uncomfortable illness, all she’d managed was a disappointingly ordinary death. As Lily labored up the hill, she thought: I have seen visions of Hell, too. But I want no part of martyrdom. I want to live. I’ll do anything to live.
By the time she climbed to the Basilica di San Domenico, her T-shirt was soaked with sweat. She stood panting at the top of the hill, gazing down upon the city, its tiled roofs blurred to soft focus in the summery haze. It was a view that made her heart ache, because she knew she would have to leave it. Already she’d lingered in Siena longer than she should have, and she could now feel the evil catching up to her, could almost smell its faint, foul odor wafting in on the wind. All around her, doughy-thighed tourists swarmed the hilltop, but she stood in silent isolation, a ghost among the living. Already dead, she thought. For me, this is borrowed time.
“Excuse me, Miss? Do you speak English?”
Startled, Lily turned to see a middle-aged man and woman wearing matching U Penn T-shirts and baggy shorts. The man was clutching a complicated-looking camera.
“Do you want me to take your picture?” Lily asked.
“That’d be great! Thanks.”
Lily took the camera. “Is there a trick to this one?”
“No, just press the button.”
The couple linked arms and posed with the view of Siena stretching like a medieval tapestry behind them. Their souvenir of a strenuous climb on a hot day.
“You’re American, aren’t you?” said the woman as Lily handed back the camera. “So where are you from?” It was merely a friendly question, something countless tourists asked each other, a way to connect with fellow travelers far from home. Instantly it put Lily on guard. Their curiosity is almost certainly innocent. But I don’t know these people. I can’t be certain.
“Oregon,” she lied.
“Really? Our son lives there! Which city?”
“Portland.”
“Now, isn’t it a small world? He lives on Northwest Irving Street. Is that anywhere near you?”
“No.” Already Lily was backing away, retreating from these overbearing people who would probably next insist that she join them for coffee, and ask her ever more questions, probing for details she had no intention of sharing. “Have a nice visit!”
“Say, would you like to—”
“I have to meet someone.” She gave a wave and fled. The doors of the basilica loomed ahead, offering sanctuary. She stepped inside, into cool silence, and breathed a sigh of relief. The church was nearly empty; only a few tourists wandered the vast space, and their voices were blessedly hushed. She walked toward the Gothic arch, where the sun glowed through stained glass in chips of jeweled light, past the tombs of Sienese nobles that lined both walls. Turning into a chapel niche, she stopped before the gilded marble altar and stared at the tabernacle containing the preserved head of Saint Catherine of Siena. Her mortal remains had been divided and distributed as holy relics, her body in Rome, her foot in Venice. Had she known this would be her fate? That her head would be wrenched from her decaying torso, her mummified face displayed to countless sweaty tourists and chattering schoolchildren?
The saint’s leathery eye sockets gazed back from behind glass. This is what death looks like. But you already know, don’t you, Lily Saul?
Shivering, Lily left the chapel niche and hurried through the echoing church, back toward the exit. Outside again, she was almost grateful for the heat. But not for the tourists. So many strangers with cameras. Any one of them might be furtively snapping her photo.
She left the basilica and started back downhill, through the Piazza Salimbeni, past the Palazzo Tolomei. The tangle of narrow streets easily befuddled tourists, but Lily knew the way through the maze, and she walked quickly, purposefully, toward her destination. She was late now, because she’d lingered too long on the hill, and Giorgio would surely scold her. Not that the prospect offered any sort of terror, for Giorgio’s grumblings never resulted in consequences of any significance.
So when she arrived at work fifteen minutes late, she did not feel even a hint of trepidation. The little bell tinkled on the door, announcing her entrance as she stepped into the shop, and she inhaled the familiar scents of dusty books and camphor and cigarette smoke. Giorgio and his son, Paolo,
were hunched over a desk near the back of the shop, both of them wearing magnifying loupes around their heads. When Paolo looked up, one enormous eye stared like a cyclops at Lily.
“You must see this!” he called out to her in Italian. “It just arrived. Sent by a collector from Israel.”
They were so excited, they hadn’t even noticed she was late. She set her backpack down behind her desk and squeezed her way past the antique table and the oak monastery bench. Past the Roman sarcophagus, which now served ignominiously as a temporary container for file storage. She stepped over an open crate that had spilled wooden packing shavings onto the floor, and frowned at the object on Giorgio’s desk. It was a block of carved marble, perhaps part of an edifice. She noticed the patina on two adjoining surfaces, a soft gleam left by centuries of exposure to wind and rain and sun. It was a cornerstone.
Young Paolo pulled off his loupe, and his dark hair stood up. Grinning at her with those earlike tufts of hair, he looked like one of the legendary Sienese werewolves, albeit a perfectly harmless and utterly charming one. Like his father, Paolo possessed not a single ounce of cruelty, and were it not for the fact that she would inevitably be forced to break his heart, Lily would happily have taken him as a lover.
“I think you will like this piece,” he said, and offered her his magnifier. “It is just the sort of thing you’re always interested in.”
She bent over the cornerstone and studied the manlike figure carved there. It was standing upright, with a skirt around its waist and decorative bracelets and anklets. But the head was not human. She slid the magnifier over her head and leaned in closer. As the details came alive through the lens, she felt a sudden chill. She saw jutting canine teeth and fingers tipped with claws. And horns.
She straightened, her throat dry, her voice oddly distant. “You said the collector is from Israel?”
Giorgio nodded and took off his loupe, revealing an older, plumper version of Paolo. The same dark eyes, but webbed with laugh lines. “This man is new to us. So we’re not sure of the provenance. Whether to trust him.”
“How did he happen to send us this piece?”
Giorgio shrugged. “It arrived in the crate today. That’s all I know.”
“He wants you to sell it for him?”
“He asked only for an appraisal. What do you think?”
She rubbed a finger across the patina. Felt the chill again, seeping from the stone to her flesh. “Where does he say it comes from?”
Giorgio reached for a bundle of papers. “He says he acquired it eight years ago, in Tehran. I think it must be smuggled.” He gave another shrug, a wink. “But what do we know, eh?”
“Persian,” she murmured. “This is Ahriman.”
“What is Ahriman?” asked Paolo.
“Not a what, a who. In ancient Persia, Ahriman is a demon. The spirit of destruction.” She set the magnifier on the desk and took a deep breath. “He’s their personification of evil.”
Giorgio gave a laugh and rubbed his hands in glee. “You see, Paolo? I told you she’d know. Devils, demons, she knows them all. Every time, she has the answer.”
“Why?” Paolo looked at her. “I never understood why you’re so interested in evil things.”
How could she answer that question? How could she tell him that she’d once looked the Beast in the eye, and It had looked right back at her? Had seen her? It’s been pursuing me ever since.
“So it is authentic?” asked Giorgio. “This cornerstone?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Then I should write him at once, eh? Our new friend in Tel Aviv. Tell him he has sent it to the right dealer, one who understands its value.” With great care, he set the stone back into its packing crate. “For something this special, we will certainly find a buyer.”
Who would want that monstrosity in their home? Lily thought. Who’d want to have evil staring at you from your own wall?
“Ah, I almost forgot,” said Giorgio. “Did you know you have an admirer?”
Lily frowned at him. “What?”
“A man, he came to the shop at lunchtime. He asked if an American woman worked for me.”
She went very still. “What did you tell him?”
Paolo said, “I stopped Father from saying anything. We could get into trouble, since you have no permit.”
“But now I’ve been thinking about it some more,” said Giorgio. “And I think maybe the man’s just sweet on you. And that’s why he inquired.” Giorgio winked.
She swallowed. “Did he say his name?”
Giorgio gave his son a playful slap on the arm. “You see?” he scolded. “You move too slowly, boy. Now another man will come and swoop her away from us.”
“What was his name?” Lily asked again, her voice sharper. But neither father nor son seemed to register the change in her demeanor. They were too busy teasing each other.
“He didn’t leave one,” said Giorgio. “I think he wants to play the incognito game, eh? Make you guess.”
“Was he a young man? What did he look like?”
“Oh. So you’re interested.”
“Was there anything”—she paused—“unusual about him?”
“What do you mean, unusual?”
Not human was what she wanted to say.
“He had very blue eyes,” offered Paolo brightly. “Strange eyes. Bright, like an angel’s.”
Quite the opposite of an angel.
She turned and immediately crossed to the window, where she peered out through dusty glass at passersby. He’s here, she thought. He’s found me in Siena.
“He’ll come back, cara mia. Just be patient,” said Giorgio.
And when he does, I can’t be here.
She snatched up her backpack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I think I shouldn’t have eaten that fish last night. It’s not agreeing with me. I need to go home.”
“Paolo will walk you there.”
“No! No.” She yanked open the door, setting off a violent jangle of the bell. “I’ll be fine.” She fled the shop and did not glance back, for fear that Paolo would try to run after her, would insist on playing the gentleman and escort. She couldn’t afford to let him slow her down. Haste was everything now.
She took a circuitous route back to her flat, avoiding crowded piazzas and major streets. Instead she cut through tiny alleys, scrambled up narrow steps between medieval walls, steadily circling toward the Fontebranda neighborhood. It would take her only five minutes to pack. She had learned to be mobile, to move at an instant’s notice, and all she had to do was toss her clothes and toilet case into the suitcase and grab the stash of Euros from its hiding place behind the dresser. These past three months, Giorgio had paid her under the table in cash, knowing full well that she had no work permit. She’d collected a nice nest egg to tide her over between jobs, enough to last her till she settled into a new town. She should grab the cash and suitcase and just go. Straight to the bus station.
No. No, on second thought, that’s where he’d expect her to go. A taxi would be better. Costly, yes, but if she used it only to get out of town, maybe as far as San Gimignano, she could catch a train to Florence. There, among the teeming crowds, she could disappear.
She did not enter her building through the piazzetta; instead, she approached through the shadowy side street, past rubbish cans and locked bicycles, and climbed the back stairs. Music was blaring in one of the other flats, spilling out an open doorway into the hall. It was that sullen teenager next door. Tito and his damn radio. She caught a glimpse of the boy, slouched like a zombie on the couch. She continued past his flat, toward hers. She was just taking out her keys when she spotted the torn matchstick and froze.
It was no longer wedged in the doorjamb; it had fallen to the floor.
Her heart pounded as she backed away. As she retreated past Tito’s doorway, the boy looked up from the couch and waved. Of all the inc
onvenient times for him to start being friendly. Don’t say a word to me, she silently pleaded. Don’t you dare say a word.
“You’re not at work today?” he called out in Italian.
She turned and ran down the stairs. Almost tripped over the bicycles as she fled into the alley. I’m too fucking late, she thought as she hurtled around the corner and scrambled up a short flight of steps. Ducking into an overgrown garden, she crouched behind a crumbling wall and froze there, scarcely daring to breathe. Five minutes, ten. She heard no footsteps, no sounds of pursuit.
Maybe the matchstick fell by itself. Maybe I can still get my suitcase. My money.
Risking a glance over the wall, she stared up the alley. No one.
Do I chance it? Do I dare?
She slipped into the alley again. Made her way down a series of narrow streets until she reached the outskirts of the piazzetta. But she did not step into the open; instead she edged toward the corner of a building and peered up at the window of her own flat. The wooden shutters were open, as she’d left them. Through the gathering twilight, she saw something move in that window. A silhouette, just for a second, framed by the shutters.
She jerked back behind the building. Shit. Shit.
She unzipped her backpack and rifled through her wallet. Forty-eight Euros. Enough for a few meals and a bus ticket. Maybe enough for a cab ride to San Gimignano, but not much more. She had an ATM card, but she dared not use it except in large cities, where she could easily slip straight into a crowd. The last time she’d used it was in Florence, on a Saturday night, when the streets were thronged.
Not here, she thought. Not in Siena.
She left the piazzetta and headed deep into the back alleys of the Fontebranda. Here was the neighborhood she knew best; here she could elude anyone. She found her way to a tiny coffee bar that she’d discovered weeks ago, frequented only by locals. Inside, it was gloomy as a cave and thick with cigarette smoke. She settled at a corner table, ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich and an espresso. Then, as the evening passed, another espresso. And another. Tonight, she would not be sleeping. She could walk to Florence. It was only—what, twenty, twenty-five miles? She’d slept in the fields before. She’d stolen peaches, plucked grapes in the dark. She could do it again.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 160