The Chamber of Ten

by Christopher Golden; Tim Lebbon

  Maybe that would be for the best, he’d thought, and then that presence within had reared up and screamed, raging with anger at such a casual intimation of death. Nico had drawn back, terrified, and the landscape around him had changed, as if a panorama of yesterday was always just below the surface of his perception. For a time after that, Volpe had walked him through the city, and Nico had shivered in the dark, cool places of his mind.

  Now it was Wednesday afternoon, and he was on his way to San Michele. Sitting in the small water taxi and watching the cemetery island draw closer, Nico could relax against Volpe’s influence. The old Venetian seemed to have eased back a little—

  Does he need rest, is that why? I have to remember that. Have to file it away somewhere deep, where even Volpe can’t reach.

  —which meant that Nico could close his eyes and try to rest as well. But only try. Because the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the impact of fist against flesh, and flashes of terror in that man’s eyes.

  The boat rocked from swell to swell as it crossed the Canale delle Fondamente Nuove. The driver sat rigid in his seat, eyes focused on their destination, and he had never once turned around to try to enter into conversation. Nico had only vague memories of boarding the boat—Volpe had been at the fore then, aiming his flesh-and-bone host in the direction he wanted—but he sensed fear in the man’s stance, and a nervous set to his shoulders. What did I say to him? he wondered, and almost laughed at the acceptance that had already settled in him. Acceptance that it was not only Nico in this body now, but someone else as well. Someone powerful and determined, whose aims were still clouded in mystery.

  He rested the book on his knees. Sometime during the noon hour he’d entered a store and bought bottled water and sandwiches, and the book was now wrapped in the carrier bag. Its cover was unstained by the blood from his grazed hands, as if the bindings had absorbed the moisture after being so long hidden away. He had vague, flashing memories of huddling in doorways or beneath street lamps and trying to open the book, but each time that happened he’d woken somewhere else, with the book wrapped in the bag once again and Volpe’s presence a smiling, excited warmth in his mind. What else has he just found out? Nico knew that the volume must be both terrible and amazing. It belonged back at the university, where Geena and he could examine and translate it with the others in their team, but even the merest thought of trying to transport it there—

  My book, my hands hold it, my eyes read it, my talents use it. Volpe’s voice was shockingly loud inside his head, and Nico gasped and stiffened against the fiberglass seat.

  The boat’s pilot pushed on the throttle, breaking speed limits and risking his license. They reached one of the many jetties and the driver swung the boat expertly against its edge. He remained staring straight ahead as Nico climbed out, unnerved or perhaps even afraid.

  “A tip,” Nico said, holding out a folded bill. He did not like having this effect on people.

  Those thumps, that face filled with fear, the thunk! as he fell into the bathtub …

  But buying forgiveness could never be that easy. The driver throttled away without taking the money, leaving a raging wash behind him as he aimed the boat back across the lagoon. Nico stood for a while watching him go, thinking of heaving the bagged book out over the water and letting it soak and sink, pages disintegrating, whatever arcane knowledge contained within—

  Darkness struck like lightning.

  He blinked, vision clearing, and found himself walking through the cemetery on the Island of the Dead. Bile rose in the back of his throat and an icy chill ran up his spine. Who the hell had Zanco Volpe been when he lived here in Venice? Who, and what? A psychic? A fucking magician?

  No. Not magic. Nico wouldn’t believe that. Telepathy was only science not yet fully understood, psychic abilities were facets of the mind. Somehow Volpe’s mind had not died with his body, it still lingered, but that didn’t make him a ghost.

  Yet even as this certainty filled him, a low, chuffing laughter rippled through the hidden places of his mind, as though Volpe stood behind some curtain like the Great and Powerful Oz, pulling levers, so sure of his control.

  Nico clapped his hands to the sides of his head. Get out! he screamed, inside his own skull.

  But the presence growing like a tumor in his brain was silent for once.

  No words were necessary. Nico’s thoughts and Volpe’s were intimately intertwined now. He knew what was necessary, and why Volpe had directed him here to the island of San Michele: the hand of a soldier.

  He’d been here before many times, because a man with his interest in the past could not resist the melancholy air of a cemetery. It was an incredible location, a cemetery island in a city of islands, a burial place for two hundred years. Two islands originally, the canal that separated them was filled in the early 1800s, and since then bodies had been ferried to the island on funeral gondolas, buried for a decade, and then exhumed and kept in huge banks of ossuaries. Space restrictions meant that being put to rest on San Michele was never a permanent arrangement.

  Nico had always loved cemeteries, partly for the fascinating array of tombs and memorial stones, but also because of their timeless atmosphere. They kept their history on view, and every grave told a different story. A couple of times Geena had come with him, and he remembered standing together before Stravinsky’s tomb, holding her hand and leaning in so that their shoulders were touching. She’d told him …

  I won’t think of her, he thought. He closed his eyes and came to a standstill, reining in his thoughts, because he did not want Volpe to see Geena in his head, sense her, feel her … and he had no desire to share precious private memories. He would think of anything else; the Chamber of Ten, his parents’ home, his old school friend Celso who liked to joke that—

  He was holding her tight, breathing in her breath as they worked their hips in harmony. Her leg was stretched over his, allowing him entry and curling around to pull him in. She was worried that something was wrong, but for a while this took them away. Her eyes were hooded and heavy. She gasped into his mouth when she came, mixing their sighs as they merged their thoughts, and it was as delicious as ever before.

  “Fuck off!” Nico shouted, full of rage and hatred. He had wanted to shield the precious parts of his memory from the intruder in his mind, but Volpe stripped away layers of thought with savage ease.

  With an effort of will, Nico dropped the book and tried to run, to deny Volpe what he wanted—an ingredient required for the ritual he seemed desperate to perform—but his legs would not obey.

  What is it, magician? Nico thought. What’s so important about your fucking ritual? He did not even believe in magic.

  But then what was this?

  Nico dropped to his knees there amidst the tombs of the Venetian dead and placed his hand on the book, which had spilled from the bag. And he chuckled, in a voice that was not his own. “You’re becoming troublesome, Signore Lombardi. So I shall have to take the reins from you. I am not your true enemy, but if you continue to fight against me, remember that the next time you are with your beloved, it will be my hands on her soft skin. The things I could do to her. I could give her pleasure or pain, but either would cause you torment. Now, behave.”

  Nico’s rage turned to tears.

  And his vision went dark again, a prisoner inside his own body.

  Later, more time lost, more of his life spent knowing and sensing nothing, Nico found himself across the cemetery island in one of the mausoleum areas. All around him the huge stone structures housed hundreds of ossuaries, and the finely crafted façades were adorned with flowers, plaques, and sealed pictures of those interred. Cypress trees sprouted seemingly at random, but he knew that the cemetery had grown around them. He’d always liked the fact that this place of death paid such attention to burgeoning life.

  The hand of a soldier, Nico thought, and Volpe exuded satisfaction.

  Nico hugged the book to his chest and breathed deeply, trying to
remain calm. He’d rather be at the fore and in control of his movements, even if doing so involved going through with Volpe’s desires. He was trapped. The blackouts were horrible, and he was desperate to avoid them as much as he could. But even his thoughts were subject to hijack, his feeling of powerlessness and vulnerability encouraged by the presence that had so quickly changed him from the man he had been.

  So he walked between the mausoleums, holding the book carefully, and trying to use the sensations immediate to him to distract him from thinking of Geena.

  Hand of a soldier, he thought. Look for a military grave, smash it open, steal the hand. Nico blinked because those thoughts were not his own, but he did as instructed.

  Several monks appeared around the corner of a mausoleum building, nodding and smiling at him, but then frowning uncertainly as they passed by. I wonder what they see, he thought, but Volpe seemed content to stay in the background.

  He walked the paths, reading names and inscriptions until he found one that looked suitable. Nico paused and took a step back, quickly jarring to a halt as though he’d struck a wall, but there was nothing behind him. Volpe’s influence, that was all.

  “Leave me be, don’t touch Geena, and I’ll do this for you,” Nico whispered. “Whoever you are. Whatever you are. You’ve got me, and I can’t get rid of you, but if you keep hurting me like that—”

  And then his voice changed, his whole throat seeming to twist out of shape as he lowered his head and uttered a final, awful sentence.

  “I have yet to hurt you.”

  Nico gasped and leaned forward against the mausoleum. He heard footsteps, and glancing to one side he saw that one of the monks had returned. The old man paused for a moment, watching Nico, and then he bowed his head softly and left. They think I’m mourning someone dead, he thought, when in fact I’m cursing them. Volpe allowed him this thought, and then Nico felt control taken from him again.

  He watched, but did not command. He moved, but did not instruct. The dead Venetian pulled his marionette strings, and Nico had no option but to obey.

  He wandered some more, straying into an old part of the cemetery. Here he found a broken tomb, and as he lifted a triangle of jagged rock, several lizards darted across the stone. One of them seemed to freeze and bend to look up at him. Then it lowered to its stomach and flipped onto its back, dead.

  Nico’s body, Volpe’s mind, carried the heavy shard of tombstone back to the mausoleums, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby. He set the book down between his feet and swung the stone at the tomb he had chosen.

  The façade cracked, but it took several more strikes before it crumbled and fell away. He cut the back of his left hand against a sharp edge, and as the pain filtered through to Nico, Volpe opened his mouth and laughed. Birds, unconcerned at the impact of rock on stone, took startled flight at the laughter. He reached inside for the metal ossuary. It was strangely warm to the touch and Nico jerked his hand back as if stung … then reached forward again, hearing a sigh in his mind as his fingers closed around a rusted metal handle. As he pulled, metal scraping across stone, the sound of approaching footsteps startled him. He tugged harder and the container slid out, dropping to the ground, lid snapping open, contents spilling across the random stone paving.

  Looking up, he saw the shadow first, and then the monk rounded the corner.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the man said, aghast.

  Help me, Nico wanted to say. But as he reached out his hands to plead, he felt Volpe rising again, both angry and excited, and so full of life for a man long dead.

  VII

  ON THURSDAY morning, Geena sat inside a small café across the street from the Biblioteca. She had spoken to the police the previous afternoon and then spent time at the site with her team, but she had been totally consumed by thoughts of Nico. They had all noticed how preoccupied she was, but Domenic—always looking out for her—had done his best to divert any questions that weren’t work related. They all meant well, she knew. Domenic had reassured her that Nico was probably just clearing his head, that he’d be back.

  But Wednesday night had turned into Thursday morning without any word from Nico.

  She ought to be at the Biblioteca right now. The BBC camera crew had arrived, including a specialist in underwater documentary footage and several divers. The rest of Howard Finch’s production team would reach Venice in another day or two, but the dive was scheduled to begin within hours. Her team would be waiting for her. She ought to go in.

  Instead, she sat watching the entrance to the Biblioteca from inside the café. She’d seen Finch arrive a few minutes earlier. Domenic had already texted her to say he was on his way and that Ramus, Sabrina, and Tonio were already inside. They were probably fending off the ire of Adrianna Ricci.

  She ought to go in. It was her project.

  But Domenic hadn’t arrived yet, and she needed to speak with him without the others around. And all the while she bore a sinking feeling in her gut, knowing she was letting everyone down.

  She had just ordered another coffee when Domenic hurried through the door.

  “Geena!” he said. “What’s wrong? Your messages had me worried.”

  “He still hasn’t come back,” she said. “He hasn’t called and I’ve had these terrible feelings that …” She sobbed, once and loud, and it startled her so much that she gasped before the first tear came.

  Domenic sat at her table and propped his bag against the chair legs, waved at a waitress, and generally did everything he could to avoid looking at her. I can’t blame him, she thought, and she sniffed and wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  “Sorry,” she said. Domenic glanced at her and waved his hand—Hey, don’t mention it—but still could not meet her eyes. “But it’s just not like him!”

  Domenic held both hands out, shoulders raised in a frozen shrug.

  “I know.” Geena sighed. “I know. Nico and I kept it to ourselves for so long. It’s awkward.”

  “Not really awkward,” he said. “Just …” The waitress came then, and they both ordered large cappuccinos with extra shots. When she left, Domenic sat quietly looking through the window at the library building across the street. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Just what?” Geena asked. He really wants to be over there, not here with me. And I can’t blame him for that. Will he blame me for not wishing the same?

  “Well, he’s not a kid,” he said. “A lot … you know … younger than you, but no kid. He can look after himself.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, but she already knew. She’d been so wrapped up in her own world that she hadn’t taken time to try to view it from the outside.

  “I mean, is Nico missing, or is he just not here? With you?”

  “You think this is to do with things between me and him?” she asked. And yes, that was exactly what he meant. A flush of anger rose and receded again, and in its place was a sudden sense of how alone she was. This hit Geena sometimes, striking hard when she least expected—a feeling that no one else really understood her. Before Nico, she’d believed it stemmed from being so mixed up in history that the present was not the same place for her as it was for other people. Much of the time she spent thinking about the past, not the here and now, and some days she’d go home after a day at the university and spend the evening adjusting to the present. And then Nico came, touching her mind, and the reasons for her remoteness became wonderfully different.

  “I’m just trying to look at it from all angles, Geena.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you what sort of trouble I thought he was in,” she said. “That policeman you put me onto, I spoke with him on the phone yesterday, and I didn’t tell him, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think Nico beat someone half to death yesterday.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks and placed them on the table quickly, sensing the awkward silence her presence had instilled. Geena held Domenic’s gaze, try
ing to read his expression. Past the shock she saw concern for her, heartfelt and deep, and she reminded herself that she had friends.

  “What do you mean?” he asked when the waitress left.

  Geena looked up when the café door opened. Finch stood in the doorway. A smile was already slipping from his face when he saw them, one hand half raised in greeting.

  “Howard,” she said, waving him in. He was the last person she’d wanted to speak to, yet he’d arrived at an opportune moment. Had she really wanted to tell Domenic about the beaten man? And if she did, how the hell would she explain how she’d linked Nico with the assault?

  She couldn’t. No one would believe her, and besides, her bond with Nico was precious and personal. It was special and peculiar to them, and she had never mentioned it to another person.

  “Am I, er, disturbing …?” Howard asked.

  “Not at all,” Geena said. “Please.” She pointed at the seat beside Domenic, and the producer sat down awkwardly. He coughed, rubbed his hands together, then shook his head when the waitress stood beside him.

  “Ah, the film crew is prepping the cameras and getting into their dive kits,” he said. “And, ah, as this is your project …” He trailed off, looking at Geena as if waiting for her to finish his sentence.

  I can’t be here, Geena thought. He’s out there somewhere, and I can’t be here. But of course, she had to be. She had responsibilities, and she had no idea where Nico might be. Rushing off and leaving all her responsibilities behind would not help her find him, and at least here she might feel grounded.

  “Yes,” Geena said, glancing at Domenic. He was frowning at her, and she knew that as soon as the two of them were alone again, he would grill her about what she’d said, and why she had not let him in on this the previous night. She’d called his police friend and told him simply that Nico was missing, and the response she’d received was just what she expected. He’s an adult. Unless you think he’s hurt or in danger, there’s little we can do. And picturing the beaten man she’d seen carried from that old building, she had told the policeman that no, she had no reason to suspect either.