Of Saints and Shadows (1994)

by Christopher Golden

  Convinced that she had rationalized quite enough for the evening, Meaghan closed her eyes and attempted to sleep. It was only a moment before she felt it growing again, in the pit of her stomach, like a tear forming in her eye. She had been through it over and over since he’d left.

  She wanted him, of that there was no doubt. But that was far from normal behavior for her. Normally, it took her a long time to make that kind of decision, especially now when taking a lover, male or female, could mean risking your life. And it was not like Peter had made any moves on her, beyond some very natural flirting. Her desire was a dark secret weighing on her mind.

  Certainly, he had some special quality that had touched a chord within her. But what the hell was it? There was an aura about him that attracted her like musk, but she couldn’t name it.

  And then she could.

  Finally. Wonderfully.

  And maybe now she could sleep.

  It was danger. Beyond the aura of mystery that surrounded him and the animal attraction she felt for him was a sense of adventure, an almost tangible atmosphere of danger. Tangible yes, and she recognized the electricity it produced. It reminded her of the wire-taut tension in (he air the one time she had fallen asleep at the wheel, waking only to find herself hell-bent for the center guardrail, oncoming traffic heavy. She snapped awake, terror howled in her chest . . . and she could feel it.

  That’s the way she felt around Peter Octavian. Not that she was afraid of him, though there was an element of that as well. But the air around him, the room as he moved into it, crackled—no, bristled—with danger.

  She felt much better, comforted somehow, that she had finally recognized her attraction. Now that she had, she could concentrate on wondering what it would be like to be with him. At last she was relaxed, sleep right around the corner, and like a naughty child, she hoped she would dream of Peter. . . .

  Only when the buzzer rang did Meaghan realize she had indeed fallen asleep. She looked at the glowing numbers on the clock at her bedside; twenty-five to three. She’d been asleep for just fifteen minutes, but she felt groggy. The buzzer rang again, reminding her that someone was trying to get her out of bed at 2:30 in the morning. Under normal circumstances it would have spooked her; with Janet missing, it scared the living shit out of her.

  Meaghan got up and threw on a robe. She had been sleeping in her night shirt—an old, faded man’s oxford—and had her socks on, and even with the robe, it was chilly as she crossed the apartment. Before she reached the door, her visitor buzzed again, more insistent this time.

  “Hello,” she croaked, half-asleep, as she worked the buttons on the intercom.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  And now she was awake. What was going on? It wasn’t the first time somebody’d buzzed an apartment at random as a prank or simply in error. But it was two-fucking-thirty in the morning and her roommate was missing and presumed dead by anybody who had half a brain.

  “Shit!” She raced for the phone. No reason to take chances. Nine-one-one.

  And then the knock.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, cursing herself for romanticizing danger. The emergency line rang for the second time. “Answer, you bastards,” she cursed under her breath. “That’s what you’re paid for.”

  The third ring and the second knock came simultaneously. This time the knock was longer, more urgent, and she imagined the same for the ring. Almost immediately the knocking became a banging.

  “Meaghan,” the knocker shouted.

  “Police department, you’re being recorded,” the emergency operator finally answered.

  It was Peter at the door.

  “Sorry,” she said to the cop who had taken his time to answer the phone. “Wrong number.”

  Realizing that he would either wake the whole building—if he hadn’t already—or break down the door, Meaghan ran to unlock it and flung it open.

  Peter’s eyes, and the eyes of the black man behind him, were wide with surprise and the detective’s mouth was open as he was about to shout again.

  “Would you mind keeping it down,” she said, still shaking in fright. “I do have neighbors.”

  “Why didn’t you answer?” Peter asked sheepishly as the two men came in.

  “I was doing my nails,” she said a bit icily, and then backed off. “I was sleeping when you buzzed. How come you didn’t answer me when I buzzed you in?”

  “Some guy was taking his dog for a walk and we just came on up. Not too bright, huh?”

  His innocent face and raised eyebrows were too much for her, and she finally relaxed. She was scared, not angry, and now that the fear had gone, she was left with only amusement at the irony of his appearance here, late at night, with only this other tall, dark stranger to protect him from her advances.

  Just kidding, she told herself.

  “I’ll put on some tea,” she said, and dashed into the kitchen. He doesn’t like coffee; she chuckled to herself. Already changing our habits for a man we’ve known for two days. Uh-huh.

  She came back into the living room while the water was heating up.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Peter said gravely.

  “Well, you nearly scared me to death.” She laughed, showing him that she expected no response. The tall black man seated by him on the couch was smiling, both in greeting and, she thought, in amusement.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter started, a bit uncomfortable. “Meaghan, Ted Gardiner, one of Boston’s finest.”

  “Peter, though it was a nice thought, I’m sure you didn’t get me up to introduce me to your Friends.” She smiled at Ted. “Nice to meet you, by the way.”

  Ted nodded as Peter stood up and began to pace and to talk. He seemed somewhat amused by the situation, by Octavian’s nervousness, which he’d guessed might have a little more to do with Meaghan Gallagher than with crazed killers disguised as priests.

  Meaghan’s eyes were wide as Peter told her, briefly, about Roger Martin and Dan Benedict. He told her he believed that Janet was dead. For the moment she’d forgotten about her attraction to the man. Now she just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  “I asked Ted to give me a ride over here after I found out about Benedict. Meaghan, we could both be in danger. I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

  And there it was. Now the danger she’d felt was real. Perversely, it felt good.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The killer, whoever he is, brought me into this when Jan disappeared. You’ve only tried to help.”

  “Ah, but have I? Helped, that is.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  For the first time that night their eyes met, locked. She saw a depth in Octavian’s eyes that was unfamiliar to her, but she sensed that it held burdens and struggles that had nothing to do with the potential danger they faced. He had demons in his soul.

  And what a silly thought that was, she chided herself as the teakettle whistled in the kitchen. Only as she spun did she notice Ted fidgeting in his seat. Poor guy, she thought.

  When Meaghan returned with a tray, Ted thanked her solemnly. She smiled at him. She felt an affinity toward Ted because she sensed that he, a policeman, was also made uneasy by Octavian, though both men were unaware of it. In the way he looked at Peter, Meaghan could tell that Ted had a deep respect for him, bordering on awe. The kinship she felt with him revolved around Peter. They were . . . the only word that came to mind was disciples, and she didn’t like the image that conjured, or the power that it gave Peter in her thoughts. He was just a guy, she reminded herself for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

  She realized she’d been holding her breath, and that she was staring at Peter. She shook her head and spoke to break the silence that held them all.

  “So. Someone wants to kill us. What the fuck are we going to do about it?”

  Peter looked up, all worry gone from his face.

  “Nothing tonight,” he said calmly. �
�Tomorrow we’ll find the man who is the center of all this, and then we’ll get some direct answers. For tonight, if you don’t mind, I’ll sleep on your couch, just to play it safe.”

  She wanted to be nervous; if it was serious enough for Peter to want to stay here to protect her, she must truly be in danger. And as much as that excited her, it frightened her as well. But Peter was calm, and confident, so she simply nodded her head.

  “Peter,” Ted said, making Meaghan realize how little he’d said since the two men had arrived.

  “Are you sure you want to go outside tomorrow? I mean, if you want, I can find some time to track this guy down.” The policeman’s forehead was knitted with concern.

  “Thanks, Ted. I’ll be okay. Besides if you were to get too heavily involved, there’d be no way to keep the department out of it, and we don’t want them involved just yet.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Meaghan was incredibly confused, and Peter could see it in her face. He answered her question before she had time to ask it.

  “The sun,” he said grimly.

  “My skin can’t endure direct sunlight for long periods of time, which is why I work almost exclusively at night. I know this sounds like a bad joke, but I suffer from a rare skin disease similar in some ways to albinism. It does no damage but causes intense pain. I’d like to explain it to you, but I don’t really understand it myself. Fortunately the doctors do, and they’ve developed a treatment that significantly diminishes the pain. Which is why we’ve got to go to Boston City Hospital in the morning.”

  “God,” she said. “That must be terrible.”

  “It’s been this way for almost as long as I can remember, so in a way it doesn’t seem quite as bad as you might think. Only a few people know about it because frankly I don’t like to draw attention to myself and I can’t stand pity. I’m only telling you because you’d find out in the morning anyway.”

  Meaghan wanted to know more, but Peter began to speak to Ted. Obviously, as far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.

  “I’ll call you first thing,” Octavian said, and the two men stood up and made their way to the door.

  “And Ted,” Peter concluded just before shutting the door, “remember what I said about not bringing the department in just yet. Their involvement would only serve to get a lot more people killed.”

  Ted nodded. He was about to leave when he seemed to remember something.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “No argument,” Peter said, and smiled a tired smile.

  “I forgot to tell you that the janitor, the one from the Martin murder—he’s awake. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to him. I’ll set it up.”

  Meaghan lay in bed, listening to Peter get comfortable in the next room. If she had been confused before, she was completely baffled now. There was no denying the strange effect he had on her, or the now tangible aura of danger around him, around them both. But she was afraid. Afraid of whoever might be waiting out there to harm her, to kill her, and a little bit afraid of Peter. That, she definitely didn’t understand. She felt bad for him, yet he scared her; he scared her, but she felt safe when he was nearby. And now she was cold; she had turned up the heat, but it seemed colder now than when Peter had first arrived.

  Cold and afraid and confused and insomniac—before she even knew she was going to do it, she was up and walking to the door of her bedroom. She opened the door and Peter looked up at her as she was standing in the open doorway in her nightshirt, socks, and underwear. She wanted to run, to hide under her covers, but he spoke to her, and then she knew she could not.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. His voice was calm and quiet; she was entranced. Meaghan walked across the room and knelt by the couch, where he lay with his head propped up on his hand.

  “I’m just a little scared, I guess,” she heard herself say, though she’d wanted to say that nothing was wrong. But she knew that he would know, perhaps did know, exactly what was wrong.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, and smiled at her as if she were a child come to her parents’ bed to hide from the thunder.

  He knew.

  She was sure that he knew that she was not only afraid of the killer. That he knew exactly how he made her feel inside, and that it scared her as much as anything else. It was unbelievable, out of control, that she could be so drawn to someone she had known for just under thirty hours.

  “Trust me,” he said. “There’s nothing here, even in the dark, for you to be afraid of. Nothing to fear in the shadows. In broad daylight, that’s where the terror is.”

  His hands moved through her hair and the words no longer made sense to her, though the sound of his voice soothed her. He was kissing her forehead and she was happy. She felt desire come upon her as his lips brushed her check, and her lips. She tasted his mouth, strangely cold, and his tongue met with hers. Not since her first night with Janet had she wanted someone so much, so quickly. His head moved down and his lips began to caress her neck.

  He stopped. Abruptly.

  He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. She wanted desperately for him to continue, but he raised his head, his eyes closed tightly, and spoke.

  “Perhaps,” he said, opening his eyes. “Perhaps you should get some rest. It’s almost morning and we’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  She smiled to hide her disappointment, as if that were possible. He had had second thoughts. He was speaking kindly and trying to comfort her, and he had, after all, come here to protect her from whatever danger she might face. But he had dismissed her, at least for tonight, and it stung. She felt foolish, but she still wanted him. She promised herself that there would be another time.

  When Meaghan had retreated to her bedroom, Peter let out a breath and relaxed. “Too close,” he whispered under his breath.

  He would see George Marcopoulos first thing in the morning. His “medicine” couldn’t wait until the afternoon.

  8

  VENICE . . . SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER

  They called it La Serenissima, the Most Serene, and in the winter months it was easy to see why. Ethereal light from the moon, the city, and the stars lit up the sea mists that drifted in from the larger canals. The chill night air kept even the pigeons out of the piazzas, the birds huddling instead with the gargoyles that looked down from the crumbling facades of the city’s grand palazzos.

  Tonight, though, carnival was not far off, and she could feel it in the air. The pulse, the beat of the city’s heart, was quickening, if only slightly, in anticipation. Its blood ran a little faster now, through arteries, alleyways, deep with the shadow of a growing passion, not stilled by the cold. Barroom doors exhaled light and noise, attempting to rouse the sleepy city from its winter slumber. When carnival arrived, it would awake indeed, even if only for a few days.

  Alexandra Nueva sat astride a gilded bronze horse, itself one of four that stood atop the Basilica di San Marco. Naked as the day she died, her deep brown skin glistening in the ghostly light, she silently watched the couple beneath her in the Piazza San Marco. They waltzed in the drifting mist. No band played, no radio blared. Even with her acute hearing, Alex could detect only one rhythmic sound, that of the lapping of the canal as it spilled over onto the flagstones, gondolas bobbing at their moorings.

  It was to this music, Alex thought, whether they knew it or not, that the couple danced. And she liked them for this. They moved to the same wordless tune that led her and her kind through the night, guided them through the darkness. She closed her eyes and listened to the music, broken constantly by the distant din of the Venetian youth, yet overwhelming, even absorbing these other noises into its rhythm until all became harmony.

  And suddenly she is mist, floating to the music. Floating after the young American couple. North they move, out of the square, and she drifts after them, the light penetrating her as it does the sea mist. After all, she is only a part of the music. She does not
mind leaving behind the basilica, with its campanile, the bell tower she loves so much for its history of debauchery and death—a history in which fifteenth-century clerics, those who deserved it the most, were suspended in wooden cages and left to die from starvation and exposure, fed just enough to keep them alive for months on end. She does not mind leaving behind the beauty of the basilica itself its beautiful horses, or the Doge’s Palace, filled with extraordinary works of art from some of history’s greatest creators, as well as a vast dungeon and torture chamber.

  Beauty and pain, the double-edged sword that is life, the sword that led Alexandra Nueva to her death and now rules her unlife, these things are no distraction to her for this sweet moment of drifting.

  The couple stops on a short bridge to look south, where, several buildings down, the Bridge of Sighs stretches across this narrow canal. They kiss. And the kiss deepens and the blood pounds first in their hearts and then in their heads and then in their loins.

  And the music of the shadows stopped, was overcome really, by this new music that pulsed in the veins of the lovers, misty-eyed to match the misty light rolling through the city in waves. Though she was still mist, Alex felt carnal now, felt a lust that, though not the same, matched the lovers’ in its ferocity.

  She had watched them the night before, to no avail. But watching them, hearing and feeling them now, she knew that tonight would be different. They crossed to the other side of the bridge and entered the Hotel Atlantico. Alex knew just where their room was, right on the first floor, the window only six feet from the water. Gondoliers passing by could see right in and would shout to the woman if they saw her in the window, then go on poling through the canal, singing loudly, hollering even louder to warn any other that might be around the next corner, lantern clanking in the dark.

  Of course, this time of year the gondoliers were few and far between, and dressed for the cold when they were out. And this late at night, there were none. So there was no one to see Alex as she took form again, in answer to the stirring she felt within her, on the ledge outside the lovers’ window. She stood well back in the shadow of an outcropping on the side of the stone building and watched while they . . .