The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘On my wages?’

  ‘It has to be something in the collection,’ said Alessandra. ‘Something that Franzeri found.’

  Winter took in the towers of books, the tables strewn with papers. The room was overwhelming. ‘And where do you suggest we start?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not the one who buried it.’

  Buried. The word prompted a thought. ‘You told me it was traditional to brick up rival magicians. You said it conferred power on a property.’

  ‘It did. They were a resource, even in death.’

  ‘So that’s where it’s going to be. Knowledge is power, right?’

  Winter picked up his gun and threw the checkerboard cap to Libby. She got to her feet and the three of them left the piano nobile and made their way to the ground floor of the palazzo.

  As with all former merchants’ homes the level that faced the street had once been a warren of store rooms and offices, used for trade. The chambers were functional, barely furnished, very different to the ostentatious spaces above. One of them housed an array of hanging tools and ironmongery. Winter selected a pickaxe. He inspected its curving steel head then laid it over his shoulder.

  They moved through the gloomy ramble of rooms, the damp making the shadows cool as stone. The water outside felt like a presence, even here. Winter imagined he could hear it through the walls, lapping against the underbelly of the house. Moonlight illuminated this part of the passageway, falling through a high, recessed window.

  A turning to the left confronted them with a solid wall of brick. There was no reason for it to be there. Why would it be closing off the corridor instead of offering another door?

  Winter trailed a hand along its cold, pitted surface, disturbing gauzy remnants of web. ‘This is it, if it’s anywhere. Stand yourselves back.’

  He swung the pickaxe. It scraped the bricks with a brief flicker of sparks. Winter heaved the thick wooden handle again. This time the tip of the axe head rooted itself in the wall. He wrenched it free and sliced it through the air once more. The brick he was targeting began to splinter and crumble.

  Winter kept swinging the pickaxe, sweating now. Brick dust billowed from the wall with each strike of the steel head. The Venetian damp had loosened the mortar but it was punishing work, and soon he was in rolled shirtsleeves.

  Eventually an entire tier of brick collapsed. Winter waved the dust away and peered through the breach in the wall. The skull of Eugenio Franzeri glared back at him. The eyes were gone but something accusatory endured in the hollows.

  ‘Found him,’ breathed Winter, wiping sweat from his face. He renewed his efforts, smashing the pickaxe into the brickwork until finally the gap was big enough to step through. Winter kicked at the loose bricks below, sending them tumbling into the rest of the rubble.

  He flung the axe aside and entered the chamber. Libby had struck a lighter and he encouraged her to bring it closer. The flame played over Franzeri’s remains.

  The body should have been buried long ago. It was propped on a plain wooden chair, the pelvis twisted, protesting, as if frozen in the instant of death. Threads of hair trailed from the skull, touching the collar of the stiff grey suit that still held the carcass. Whatever skin was left hung like rags from the tobacco-coloured bones. Leather straps had been drawn tight around the wrists and the ankles. The flesh had decayed around them.

  Something moved in Winter’s veins in the presence of the bones. Something quick, and hungering.

  He stared at the body. What an end Franzeri must have faced, all alone. The patient horror of it turned Winter’s stomach. Tied to that chair, having to watch as his own death was assembled, brick by brick. Winter wondered how long the air could have lasted in that final, desperate darkness.

  ‘Admiring your handicraft?’ asked Alessandra.

  ‘That’s hardly fair.’

  ‘It troubles you?’

  ‘Of course it does.’ The guilt had come like a punch.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Libby, waving her lighter over the sightless head. ‘Christmas must have been really tough.’

  ‘Keep the flame still,’ said Winter, firmly. ‘Bring it into the corners.’

  He peered into the depths of the chamber. All he saw was bricks and cracked flagstones. The room was empty.

  ‘There has to be something in here. Something I didn’t want anybody to find.’

  ‘You never buried things,’ said Alessandra. ‘You acquired things. You would have taken it, whatever it was.’

  ‘Maybe I had a very compelling reason to leave it here.’

  Winter eased a fob watch from Franzeri’s waistcoat pocket. The silver felt cold in his hand. He flipped the case apart. The hours were marked in thin Roman numerals, orbiting a knot of cogs and gears. The watch had stopped at seven minutes to five. He turned it over. There was an inscription etched on the back.

  Eugenio! All our possibilities, all our lives! Tobias

  Winter tucked the timepiece back in the waistcoat. Then he patted the jacket, moving across the pockets. A hard, slender shape protruded to the left of Franzeri’s chest. Something was concealed in the inside pocket. Grimacing as he brushed the dead man’s ribs, Winter slipped his fingers inside the suit and carefully extracted the object.

  It was an antique Venetian fan, folded between whalebone blades.

  Winter spread the silk leaves, shaking off a scurry of beetles that had found their way into the jacket. The pleats were hand-painted and depicted a sunset on the Grand Canal, black funeral barges cresting the water. The fan was studded with seven gemstones, arranged in a curiously asymmetrical pattern. They glittered as Libby’s lighter played over them.

  ‘Very decorative,’ said Alessandra, unimpressed.

  Libby peered at it. ‘Bit morbid for a souvenir, isn’t it?’

  Winter slanted the fan. There was a detail within the silk that wasn’t visible at first glance. The glow of the lighter exposed it: a fine thread, like a vein in a leaf, linking the gemstones.

  He left the chamber, stepping through the bricks and back into the passageway. Finding a spot beneath the high window, he held the unfurled fan to the moonlight, tilting it until the leaves cast a shadow on the opposite wall. The silk left a pale, phantom image on the stone but the tracery of thread was magnified and accentuated by the light. It ran in a ragged, winding line, the gemstones dotted like markers.

  ‘What is this? Some kind of coastline?’ The shadow map trembled on the wall.

  ‘Where exactly are we looking at?’ asked Libby.

  ‘God knows,’ said Winter. ‘I don’t recognise it.’

  There was a snapping sound from the chamber. Winter turned and saw Alessandra returning. There was a skeletal finger in her hand, freshly plucked. She offered it to Winter.

  ‘You used to be so wonderful at bone magic,’ she said, with the expectant look of a cat gifting a dead bird. ‘Franzeri’s bones will remember. I’ll show you how to do the ritual. The girl can spare her blood.’

  Libby stared at her. ‘Back off, mate.’

  ‘Don’t be difficult,’ said Alessandra. ‘It will only require a cupful. Two at most.’

  ‘We’re going to get this to London,’ said Libby, emphatically. ‘This is a British Intelligence operation. I’m not here for the voodoo.’

  ‘It’s not voodoo, you ignorant child,’ sighed Alessandra. ‘That’s an entirely different genus of magic.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whatever you say, Lady Macbeth.’

  Winter raised a hand. He had heard something. Pocketing the fan, he determined the direction of the sound. Then he eased his gun from its holster and started to walk, taking care to step softly along the flagstones. The others followed him, retracing the path through the huddle of basement rooms.

  The passage took them to the edge of the interior courtyard. Winter pressed himself against the nearest wall and slid the catch of the semi-automatic. Still in shadow, he peered around the corner.


  The house had other visitors now.

  It was a man and a woman. They stood on the jewelled marble of the hallway, framed by the open door. The pair were motionless, calm as mannequins.

  ‘Please, no drama, Mr Winter,’ said the woman, breaking her stillness. Her voice had a familiar silken quality. ‘It will only embarrass us all.’

  Winter stepped around the wall, the gun in his hand and fixed upon her.

  ‘I don’t embarrass easily, believe me.’

  ‘Oh. Are you quite sure you’re British?’

  He knew her. The silver-blonde hair was loose now, and she wore a white woollen dress, not a business suit, but the dark eyes and engorged pupils were just as he remembered. And just the same as Alessandra’s.

  ‘We’re pretty far from Scratch Hill Junction,’ said Winter, keeping the gun level. ‘I hope you haven’t come all this way for your money.’

  The succubus smiled. ‘Money is rarely a concern.’

  She looked past Winter. ‘Alessandra,’ she said, without much warmth. ‘It has been quite a while. I hope this world is rewarding you.’

  Alessandra nodded, her response equally measured. ‘Fabienne. Likewise.’

  Libby had also stepped into the courtyard. She steadied a gun that Winter knew was empty.

  ‘As you see, we are unarmed,’ said the woman, indicating the impassive, black-clad companion that Winter recognised as her chauffeur from London. ‘You can put your weapon down, my exquisite girl.’

  ‘Yes, I know I can, darling,’ said Libby, keeping the gun upon her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ demanded Winter, gesturing with his own weapon.

  Fabienne paused, the answer taking shape on her lips.

  ‘It’s in the manner of a business proposition.’

  12

  The speedboat powered across the black sweep of the Adriatic, its prow cleaving the water. Behind the craft was a wake of foam and beyond that the increasingly distant lights of Venice, the oil refinery at Porto Marghera burning against the night, a beacon of fire and steel.

  Winter sat in the back of the Riva, feeling its engine thrum in his gut. The hull lurched as it fought the waves, rearing out of the sea then smashing back down again, hurling spray either side of the boat. Fabienne’s silent chauffeur was at the wheel, keeping the speed somewhere, Winter estimated, in the region of fifty knots. The wind felt cold and sleek against his face.

  They were passing tiny, glittering islands, strung like lanterns through the saltwater lagoon that surrounded the city. Over the years they had been home to everything from asylums to leper colonies to wartime munitions dumps. Now they were tourist traps, peddling lace and glass and postcard-friendly Benedictine monasteries. Fishing boats staked out the spaces between them, their nets flung on the water, hunting squid and cuttlefish under a high moon.

  Winter turned in his seat. Alessandra was next to him. She was staring at Libby, who had one arm over the side of the luxury runabout. The girl had momentarily closed her eyes, savouring the chill of sea spray on her skin.

  Alessandra watched her in quiet fascination. She put a hand to Libby’s cheek, the tips of her fingers stopping just short of contact.

  Libby opened her eyes, instantly suspicious. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I wish to touch your face,’ said Alessandra, with a persuasive smile.

  Libby blinked. ‘My face?’

  Alessandra nodded, her eyes fixed on the beads of water that clung to Libby’s cheek. ‘You looked so content. This experience has meaning for you. I’d like to share it.’

  Libby remained wary. ‘My grandad had a boat. Up in Folkestone. I spent my summers there.’

  ‘And you were happy?’

  ‘I was a kid. Of course I was. Why am I even telling you this?’

  ‘And that memory returned to you through your skin?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘Suppose. That’s not unusual, though, is it? Everybody remembers stuff like that.’

  Alessandra’s smile faded. There was a hunger in her expression now. ‘Tactile memory is succulent. Let me consume that moment.’

  Libby shifted in her seat, studying the eager black eyes looking back at her. ‘You’re a bit weird, luv, aren’t you?’

  Alessandra turned to Winter. ‘Must this child accompany us?’

  If Winter had heard the question he didn’t acknowledge it. He was staring across the water.

  A vast bank of cloud sat on the horizon, eclipsing the stars, stark and white against the darkness. Winter was reminded of photos he had seen of an A-bomb test; it was just like one of those apocalyptic blooms, captured in monochrome. The cloud extended along the line of the sea, its edges curling back into its swollen, billowing heart. The boat was gunning straight for it.

  Fabienne addressed them from the front of the craft. ‘We’re almost there.’

  The Riva pierced the cloud. In seconds all sign of the sky was gone, replaced by a thick, damp blankness. It was all around them, obscuring everything but their faces. Winter watched the white vapour drift between the seats, its texture like woodsmoke.

  The boat began to lose speed, the engine falling from a full-throated roar to a muted rumble. Now they were gliding through the water, clearly following some pre-ordained path. Reeds rattled against the hull as they entered a shallow. There was land ahead.

  The motor dwindled. The Riva slid to a halt, clasped by marsh. A floodlight burned through the cloud, illuminating a jetty nestling among cedar trees. Fabienne gestured for them to leave the boat.

  The shrill drone of cicada filled the cedars. There was no sign of the stars through the branches, only the colourless drift of cloud. This had to be another of the outlying islands, thought Winter, perhaps the furthest from the city. The cloud had utterly shrouded it. He wondered if it even graced a map.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked, the speedboat swaying in the water as he disembarked.

  It was Alessandra who answered. ‘Let’s call it a retreat.’

  Winter looked around him, trying to grasp the geography of the shadows. ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘Why would it have a name? It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Feels pretty solid to me,’ said Libby, stepping onto the stone walkway that led from the jetty.

  Alessandra smirked. ‘Everything’s solid to your kind. It must be so crushing after a while, all that concrete reality getting in the way of the world.’

  ‘We get by.’

  ‘There’s no need to tease them,’ said Fabienne, with a trace of condescension. ‘It’s unfair.’

  ‘I’m amazed you can resist, Fabienne.’

  ‘Just take us where we’re meant to go,’ said Winter, cutting in impatiently. ‘Our little human egos can bruise later.’

  Fabienne turned and led them through the trees. The cicada continued their relentless chitter, the sound filling the night. The cedars gave the air a thick, woodsy perfume that made the darkness strangely heady.

  In a matter of minutes the path had broadened, bringing them to the edge of a vast lawn. The parallel swathes of grass were divided by a strip of gleaming black stone. Someone had made their home on this hidden island. Someone with considerable resources, clearly. Great squares of electric light were mounted either side of the lawn. They were dazzling, too bright to look at directly. The hot glare of the floodlights picked out a series of statues positioned at intervals along the path. The figures were giant nudes, their cool marble limbs entwining, their faces fixed in ecstasy. To Winter they looked like the couplings of gods.

  The marble appeared to be in motion, its surface running like liquid. It took Winter a moment to realise that the statues were actually teeming with ants. He saw the creatures swarm across the frozen bodies, surging in black streams. One trail of ants followed the contours of a man’s face, marching over the ridges of the blind eyes.

  He saw something else, then, in the shadows behind the statues. A glimpse of colour, a fleeting shape. He narrowed his eyes against the brilliance of the fl
oodlights, trying to pin down whatever he had half seen.

  Again he caught a glimmer of iridescent colour. This time Winter could make out a figure. It was cowled and robed, only a sliver of face on show. A dark, wary eye regarded him, framed by a half-moon of metal that clung to the skin, covering the features of the onlooker. The façade glinted as it caught the light.

  The silent figure wasn’t alone. There were at least a dozen of them, watching from the borders of the lawn. They were draped in long, loose silks, their faces lost behind folds of fabric or concealed by shards of metal. The robes they wore were elaborately decorated, swirls of precious stone stitched into the cloth. When they moved there was a whispering jangle of chains and bracelets.

  ‘Who are these people?’ Libby asked Alessandra.

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Fabienne, cutting in. ‘We have no business with them.’

  ‘Why are they dressed like that?’

  Alessandra answered her this time. ‘Sometimes this world can burn us. We taste too much of it.’

  Winter kept his gaze on the robed figures. They hovered like silken, tinkling wraiths, carefully maintaining their distance. ‘You mean these people are your kind?’

  ‘They are our wounded. This island is theirs.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘She’s already told you,’ said Fabienne. ‘This world happened to them.’

  Winter sensed her reluctance to share any more details. He pressed her regardless. ‘You feed on our senses, don’t you? These wounded, as you call them… they experienced more than they bargained for, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Sometimes sensory pleasure is a toxin,’ said Alessandra, matter-of-factly. ‘In too high a concentration it can poison our bodies, leave our flesh twisted, scalded. The inhabitants of this island are a reminder of that. The price of the banquet.’

  ‘Not sure I fancy being a banquet for you lot,’ murmured Libby, walking behind the others.

  Alessandra smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, child. You’re more of an appetiser.’

  ‘These abandoned souls are of no consequence to you,’ insisted Fabienne. ‘We are here to meet the Glorious.’

  ‘The glorious what?’ asked Winter.