Crystal Whisperer (Spotless Series #3)

by Camilla Monk

  Once they had—hastily—ascertained that we posed no further threat, we were guided down the tortuous path leading to Novensia’s research facility, sandwiched between the two pairs of bodyguards. When the cove came into view, I forgot about the purpose of our visit for a moment. From above, the place was even more beautiful, its water among the purest I’d ever seen. On the creamy sand, turquoise green bled on azure blue like watercolor.

  Up close, the building wasn’t so much an architectural marvel as an aesthetic one. The design of the massive crystal-like structure was more complex than I’d previously thought: each irregular pentagon-shaped face was made of smaller triangular facets forming recursive pentagrams. Geometry and engineering in the service of witchcraft. Very reassuring.

  Esoteric considerations aside, the facility seemed more or less deserted as we entered. A few papers still lay forgotten on the reception desk. Through glass partitions, an empty open space and several meeting rooms were visible. There’d been people working here until very recently, but now it was just us and the bodyguards leading the way.

  At the other end of the lobby, doors slid open, whose outline I’d barely noticed in the smooth brushed-steel wall. The guards gestured for us to stop there. March assessed with a wary gaze the second group of four men approaching us. I clenched my fists. It looked a lot like we were being surrounded. Behind the newcomers, a silhouette moved, held back by a fifth guard, it seemed.

  March and I watched in mild shock as Sabina Falchi came forward. The men stepped aside with a scowl, apparently hesitant to touch her. Dries crossed his arms, gauging her with a feral twist of his lips. Now wearing an elegant tapered teal dress, high-heeled sandals, and a ton of conditioner on the black tresses framing a flashy diamond necklace, Sabina looked nothing like the woman who had been rescued less than eighteen hours ago . . . possibly by the same guys. She was deadly pale though, and no amount of makeup could conceal the dark circles under her eyes.

  I took a cautious step forward, only to be stopped by March’s hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Do you know what really happened to that plane?”

  The car chase was probably still fresh in her mind: her face pinched into a grimace of fear as her gaze met mine. She reined in the emotion in a long exhale and stared at Dries with an intensity I couldn’t decipher. Obviously she recognized him.

  He tilted his head and answered her scrutiny in a velvety voice. “Lady Luck herself. Are you as happy to meet me as I am to meet you, Sabina?”

  I can safely say that the last answer any of us expected was that soft, breathless “Yes.”

  March and I exchanged looks as one of the guards split from the group and crossed the lobby to call an elevator. Whatever game she and “Lucca” were playing, and whether Pio Maraì had anything to do with it . . . we would know soon.

  “We must go upstairs now,” Falchi announced, each syllable rolling with a soft Italian accent.

  Dries shook his head with the faintest curl of his lips. “Oh Sabina . . . did you arrange a party for us? You shouldn’t have.” He beckoned March and me with his hand, as if he were onstage performing some kind of twisted play. “Come on, you two, let us not make the empress wait.”

  Something flickered in her gaze when he said this, a spark of surprise, admiration even.

  As the guards crammed with us in the elevator, March’s hand sneaked around my waist. I closed my eyes briefly, grateful for that tiny, invisible bond between us, even when my nose was ten inches away from the barrel of a rifle.

  “I didn’t picture you as a man with an interest in history,” Sabina told Dries, once the steel doors slid closed.

  His golden eyes softened—whether there was any sincerity to it, I couldn’t tell. “Well, I like a woman of character, and Emperor Hadrian’s wife didn’t lack any.”

  Her chest rose with a sharp intake of air. “It was also the name of Nero’s second wife.”

  It was the way she said this, like a warning: licks of cold fear prickled down my spine as the doors opened to a vast penthouse overlooking the creek. We crossed a living room that could just as well have been a museum: minimalistic, impersonal, the pure-white lines and touches of wood only here to showcase the antique sculptures and paintings on the walls. Sabina whirled around and stared at Dries again for a moment, an unspoken plea in her eyes, as if he held some answer neither March nor I did. She then seemed to make up her mind and walked across the room to a spiral staircase leading to the tenth and last floor. “This way.”

  We followed her up the stairs. When we reached the top, March’s hand brushed my arm in silent reassurance. I thought of Moritz. I almost wished he hadn’t decided to feed me Nutella cornetti and hit on me right under his nose.

  The tenth and last floor must have been where Maraì lived. From the kitchen to the couch and bookshelves, the atmosphere was different in this room, made warmer by a little mess and colorful cushions. In a corner of the room, a stereo was playing. I recognized Mozart’s Requiem, or more precisely, the soft, ghostly choirs of the Agnus Dei. Okay . . . let it be a coincidence.

  In front of us, a bay window opened to a terrace that almost looked like it was floating on the horizon’s line. There, two men facing away from us appeared to be enjoying the warm morning breeze. My pulse picked up. Next to a brown-haired man lounging in a deck chair, a hooded figure sat crouched.

  A soprano’s crystalline voice was begging God to welcome us in his light, and Sabina had lost a good deal of her countenance. Her fists were balled in an effort not to shake. Tears were welling in her eyes, which she struggled to hold back. “Lucca. Loro sono qui,” she managed out. Lucca. They’re here.

  The hooded guy got up on his feet. He was lean, graceful; his navy hoodie and gray jeans could have been those of a student. He turned to face us, and all of a sudden, I found myself tumbling down the uncanny valley. Looking back at us were empty eyes, human features lacking any asperity, any life. The blissful and impenetrable smile of a Japanese Noh mask.

  21

  Jus in Bello

  Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant them everlasting rest.

  —Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Requiem

  The Noh mask fascinated me, with its pale oval and the slanted eyes. The mouth was small, feminine, revealing a row of square teeth. I couldn’t tear my gaze from that eerie smile, and it took me several seconds to figure that the guy in a suit resting on the deck chair was probably Pio Maraì, and that he wasn’t going to move because he was dead. I stepped back instinctively, meeting the comforting planes of March’s chest. His hand moved to rest on my shoulder.

  The hooded man moved too, and my stomach twisted because I thought he meant to reach for me, grab me. It was in fact Sabina he pulled to him and gathered in his arms. He held her tenderly, like a lover would have, stroked her face and the wavy ribbons of black hair. It looked like he meant to kiss her but couldn’t, so he touched his cold lips to hers and spoke, in a voice that was just as inhuman as this parody of affection.

  “Io non voglio che tu sia triste.” I don’t want you to be sad.

  The unexpected metallic, robotic accents turned my bones to brittle ice. It was a machine speaking. The intonation sounded surprisingly natural though: just as soft as his fingers caressing her glittery necklace. She sniffed quietly in response. This woman wasn’t sad. She was legitimately terrified. It was becoming obvious that over the past eighteen hours, Sabina Falchi had come to understand she had made a terrible mistake in resting her fate in the hands of whoever Lucca truly was. Which, by the way, begged to question our own immediate future.

  He must be used to people being weirded out. He let go of Sabina to study us through the tiny holes in his metal mask. I couldn’t see his eyes, and that made him even scarier. “I’m sorry; this part is always a little awkward.” He touched the side of his mask. “It reads neuroelectrical signals from my brain and muscle activity on the upper half of my face, and it crosses the data to restitut
e natural speech. I’m very proud of it. Although, I must warn you that my words aren’t always exactly the ones I mean, and I apologize for any misunderstanding as a result.”

  So whatever the mask concealed was bad enough that he could no longer speak. Jesus, this was wrong. I just couldn’t reconcile this computerized voice with the rest his body . . . The skin, the veins on his delicate hands, the hair on his knuckles—those were flesh and blood; they belonged to a human being. More specifically, a psychopathic asshole.

  “Who are you?” March asked, his own astonishment enveloping each word.

  “No one of importance.” The Noh guy tilted his head, and I knew that behind the black slits, his gaze was traveling between me and Dries. “You do look like each other. She’s your daughter, am I right?”

  He knew? How?

  Dries’s fists clenched in response, but his expression remained one of self-assurance. “Answer the question. Who am I talking to? Or perhaps should I say, what?”

  “You are being hurtful.” There was an odd accent of sincerity in the synthetic harmonics. “I don’t like you.”

  “I don’t like you either,” Dries went on. “And what I like even less is waking up to my own face on TV. I’m afraid you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  The Noh mask’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. “You are like Pio. An old, desperate man who can’t see he has served his purpose and needs to go.”

  Upon hearing this, Sabina sniffed quietly, and her mouth twisted to reveal gritted teeth.

  The Noh mask placed a not-so-comforting hand on the small of her back, and his synthetic voice went on, the slanted eyes set on Dries. “You need to go. Everyone needs you to go. That’s why you’re here. So I can solve this problem.”

  I saw Dries’s lips part to say something, but I spoke before I could stop myself, spurred by an equal amount of fear and anger. “You’re Lucca Gerone, right? I read about your research for Novensia, the crystals. Is that what happened? Did you use some kind of ultrasound frequency against the plane?”

  Sabina cast a desperate look my way. All the confirmation I needed. I jerked my chin at her. “But then you realized she would be on the flight, so you went to the airport, and you saved her life.” I pointed to the lifeless body slowly cooking under the sun with a trembling finger. “No such pity for Pio Maraì though.” Behind me, I sensed March shift. Could he tell I was trying to play for time? I raised my voice. “Why? What happened to you, Lucca?”

  The Noh mask let go of Sabina, but he barely acknowledged me, speaking to March instead. “I like her better than her father. You have nothing to worry about; she will be spared. You have to leave us too, but I want you to know no one will hurt her even after you are gone.”

  My heart rammed against my rib cage. Somehow Gerone’s promise scared me more than any death threat would have. Because of the finality of his words as he voiced his intent to kill March. Void of anger. Matter-of-fact. Why would he spare me anyway? I had nothing to do with whatever insane scheme he was trying to pull. Did he even know March to address that promise to him specifically?

  “How generous of you,” March replied, a cold smile stirring his lips.

  As he said this, his posture straightened imperceptibly. The black leather of his gloves fitted around his knuckles with a faint squeak. Something moved at the edge of my vision—the guards who had led us to the penthouse had positioned themselves in the living room and on each side of the window. I could see their assault rifles reflected in the glass balcony. Dries sent me a sharp look, and I noticed Sabina was inching away from Gerone and toward him. I couldn’t blame her. I had been through enough over the past six months to know that sometimes immediate emergency dictates you pick the fire over the frying pan.

  Inside the penthouse, the Requiem was still playing. An unpleasant pressure squeezed my lungs when the eighth and final movement started. “Cum Sanctis tuis in aeternum” With your Saints, in eternity . . . how about no?

  Gerone extended his hands in my and Sabina’s direction. “Ladies? I believe it’s time for us to go.”

  I stood frozen in place, looking up at March helplessly, while Sabina shook her head and staggered backward until she stood at Dries’s side. Some of the guards reached for their guns. She begged Gerone through choked sobs. “Lucca . . . lasciami andare. Non mi uccidere! Per favore!” Lucca . . . let me go. Don’t kill me! Please!

  My first instinct was that she was wrong, that, twisted as he may be, he loved her enough to have rescued her, so he wouldn’t. But he stiffened, as if he were surprised with her refusal to join him, and reached in his pocket, palming something there. That’s when she panicked. Her hands flew to the intricate diamond necklace around her neck, trembling, clutching and unclutching, yet never making contact with the jewelry. Her sobbing had become hysterical. “No, no! Non farlo . . . Lucca, per favore!” No, no! Don’t do it . . . Lucca, please!

  My gaze was locked on her fingers, the shimmering stones they wouldn’t dare to touch. Bits of Gerone’s research flashed in my mind. When exposed to ultrasound waves . . . High risk of instability.

  Crystals explosion.

  Oooh. Shit. Ultron dabbled in jewelry too.

  Gerone’s hand remained in his pocket as he faced Sabina. “You’re making a scene. Your mascara is running. Come, please,” the synthetic voice ordered.

  All guards stared at Sabina through their badass sunglasses, waiting for an order from Gerone. Dries winked at her. She was panting now, her stomach undulating under the tight material of her dress, beads of sweat rolling between her breasts.

  I didn’t think Gerone would do it. Even knowing he’d likely killed six hundred people without a trace of remorse, my brain refused to compute that one human being could blow up another’s head like that. I barely saw Dries move. Sabina shrieked in horror even as he tore the river of crystals from her neck and hurled it to the ground. I’m not sure the necklace even touched it, the deflagration happened too fast. Holy shit, he did it. He seriously tried to . . . March shoved me to the ground and shielded us with his bulletproof jacket from the storm of white-hot crystals hailing our way. I hissed when I felt some hit my legs, the burn seeping through the fabric of my pants.

  By the time my vision cleared, several of Gerone’s men were already taking him to safety back inside the penthouse. Flattened to the ground under Dries, Sabina emitted a series of panicked hiccups, a sure sign that she wasn’t dead yet. In the two seconds it took for the remaining guards standing on the terrace to recover and set their sights on killing us, March grabbed the barrel of the rifle closest to him and spun it around, shooting its unfortunate owner in the face.

  At that point, I think they got really angry with us. Bullets started flying in all directions, smashing into the teak floorboards, shattering the glass balcony, transpiercing the deck chair where Pio Maraì still rested. Dries rolled toward the deck chair. I thought he meant to shield himself, but he toppled it over with a kick. I heard Sabina yelp when the corpse fell heavily, landing inches from her. The chair went flying across the terrace and hit a guard square in the face. My breakfast threatened to geyser back up when he collapsed in a splatter of blood and—God—a few teeth. Dries picked up the man’s gun, and that was terrible news for his two remaining colleagues, who fell dead shortly afterward.

  Someone grabbed my legs, and I almost kicked back, only to realize that March was dragging me back inside the penthouse and into the space between the kitchen counter and island. On the terrace, Sabina made an attempt to get on her feet, but Dries knocked her out unceremoniously with an encouragement to “be a good girl, and wait here.” She dropped unconscious near Maraì’s waxy body. For those of you reading this and wondering where the gentlemen have gone, that’s where—beating up women in Croatia.

  March knelt by me and squeezed my hand. “Others are coming up. Stay here, and please don’t do anything. Wait, and stay hidden until I come back for you.”

  “What if they come for me?” I asked between
two panicked breaths.

  I shouldn’t have. He didn’t need to think of that. His brow quivered, as if his brain were trying to work through an equation that wouldn’t compute.

  The answer came from above, tossed in my lap by Dries. “Then you have my permission to use this. Last resort.”

  I took what looked every bit like be a pair of aluminum USB keys. “What’s that?”

  “Concentrated C-4. Press both sides simultaneously to arm them. You have five seconds after that. Daddy loves science too.”

  C-4? As in, Boom? Was there a manual for this? I didn’t want to make anyone explode! Sweet Raptor Jesus, what was it that March and I had discussed on the boat, about me being safe and staying clear of the thug life?

  March seemed conflicted about Dries’s “last resort” plan. He pressed a quick kiss to my temple. “Don’t touch it. Trust me, when the way is clear, I’ll come back for you.”

  My fingers closed around the strangely heavy metal dominoes as he and Dries hurried toward the staircase. New gunshots crackled in the air, which made me curl into a tight ball. The noises progressively grew fainter until I was alone in the penthouse, a few feet away from several dead bodies and a passed-out Sabina, who wasn’t giving any sign of coming to her senses.

  Above the counter, a brass clock on the wall ticked off the seconds steadily. Gerone must have fled the building by now. I couldn’t hear any noise coming from the floors below. Something flared at the edge of my vision. I glanced outside to see the noon sun hitting the building’s façade, turning each glass panel into a gleaming-white jewel. On the terrace floor, hundreds of crystal fragments coming from Sabina’s necklace still lay scattered, some turned brownish by the heat of the explosion. That’s when I started to envision the possibility that I was in fact trapped on the top floor of one massive pile of Novensia glass. I preferred not to explore the ramifications of that particular scenario.