In the Wind (Out of the Box Book 2)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Yes,” she says acidly, “and it’s exactly that difference that will get you killed in a fight with these men.” She slides back from the table, ready to leave.

  “Wait,” I say, and she does. “Like I said, I know we’re up against … a lot.”

  “And we don’t even know their plan,” she adds.

  “And we don’t know their plan,” I agree. “But I think we all know that their plan, carried out, means the worst kind of change.” I look her in the eye, and I don’t spare the gravitas, trying desperately to convey the seriousness of the situation. “No one else is going to stop Anselmo if we don’t. Do you believe that?”

  She looks at me and sighs. “I believe that. But I do not believe we can stop them.”

  “I believe we have the obligation to at least try,” I say, not looking away from her. “But if you want to just walk away and let the consequences fall wherever they may … I understand that. And I guess I can respect your desire to live more than to make a stand.” I nod at her. “I wish you the best of luck, but for me—I can’t stand the sting of thinking myself a coward, which is exactly what I’d think every day if I walked away from this without at least trying to stop Anselmo.”

  The lines across her brow soften. “You would hold your manhood cheap if you didn’t fight.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Uh … not quite how I’d put it, but … yeah. I guess.”

  “It’s from Shakespeare,” Father Emmanuel says. “The St. Crispin’s Day speech.” He nods once, sharply. “I don’t know if we can stop them, but I am with you to at least try. I don’t think I could consider myself a good man if I didn’t at least try.”

  “I am with you,” Isabella says, and I can see by the look in her eyes that she is.

  “We are all of us fools,” Diana says quietly, staring down at the table with that thousand yard stare. “I should have died at the end of the last age of our kind; I have seen too much change.” She looks back up at me, straight in the eye. “If Anselmo wants to harken us back to the old world with him at our head, like that bastard Zeus, then I will do my utmost to help you stop him.” She sighed. “Even if it means joining my fate to all of yours.” She looks up. “Where do we start?”

  67.

  “So how does this go down?” I ask as the four of us walk along the Via della Conciliazione, the road that stretches between the Vatican and the Castel Sant’Angelo. I can see St. Peter’s down the way. I’m spitballing, trying to figure this thing out before it hits us all like a runaway bad metaphor. There’s quiet in the night air, a sense of foreboding that hangs over this little corner of the city.

  “If they truly mean to assassinate the premier,” Diana says, pensive, “they could hit him anywhere along the path, from here to his residence.”

  I chew on that for a second. “Let’s assume he’s going high profile. That means somewhere in here, right?”

  “There will be a full ceremony as he meets the Pope,” Father Emmanuel says helpfully. “This is a formal meeting of heads of state, since this is a new Prime Minister.”

  “Any chance the Pope’s guards will take this threat seriously if you bring it to them?” I ask. I’m grasping at straws here.

  “I suppose it is possible,” Emmanuel says with a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know how they’ll respond, but I can try.”

  “And you’re willing to do that now?” I ask. “Even if it means speaking up?”

  He almost bows his head. “I cannot live with myself if I do not. I will try.”

  “Well, that’s something,” I say as we keep going. A few cafés are open here and there, but not many. I glance behind us, and realize that somewhere back there is the Castel Sant’Angelo, that mighty drum of a fortress, though it’s hidden behind the buildings from here. “So we’ve got a long avenue here …”

  “Which will be shut down by the Carabinieri for a special occasion such as this,” Dr. Perugini chimes in. She’s moving along at a brisk clip with the rest of us. The air is a little chill now that the sun is down. “It will be closed to vehicle traffic for a papal event.”

  “So the premier comes driving up for his formal occasion,” I say, musing my way through it as we approach St. Peter’s Square. The basilica is lit up ahead of us. “Fintan’s involved for a reason, so maybe they snuff him right as he’s arriving?”

  “Makes sense,” Diana says, and she’s got a tight expression, green eyes looking surprisingly lively. “There will be plenty of cameras present for that, and Anselmo is cracked enough to want it seen.”

  “So how do we stop them?” I ask, thinking it through as I speak. “Maybe a zone defense, or man-to-man—”

  “This is English you are speaking?” Diana looks at me with a sharp frown.

  “Sorry,” I say. “We take them one-on-one.”

  “Bad odds against Anselmo,” Diana says.

  “I think I can handle him,” I say. She cocks an eyebrow at me questioningly. “I got a toy from home that should take care of him in a pinch. Which leaves us with Lorenzo and Fintan.”

  “What is Fintan?” Father Emmanuel asks.

  “Firbolg,” I say. “They get into this kind of battle fury, kind of an adrenaline-fueled rage that makes them really hard to stop. They can do a lot of damage like that—smash cars to pieces, shred people—it’s pretty messy.”

  “Are they invulnerable?” Emmanuel asks.

  “No,” I say, “but they can take a lot more punishment when they’re in the fury. It’s like they don’t know that they’re taking damage.”

  “I can handle him,” Father Emmanuel says, nodding with a certainty I find oddly comforting. “And he is my task in any case.”

  I think about questioning this, but let it drop. “Okay. The priest has got the rage-roidal monster, and I’ve got Anselmo.” I swivel my head took at Diana, who seems focused on the basilica. “You think you can handle Lorenzo and his mighty hurricanes?”

  She doesn’t say anything at first, staring straight ahead. “I remember when this was the Circus of Nero.” She waves a hand toward the basilica and the massive obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square. “That used to sit in the middle of the Circus, and was moved—I don’t even remember when.” She looks disgusted. “Change. Everything changes, always, and I watch as it does.” She looks at me, and I see something stirring behind those eyes, some sense of rage that’s looking for an outlet. “I will handle your Aeolus problem for you.”

  I stare back at her. “He’s been pretty good at dodging your arrows so far. You sure you’re up for it?”

  I see the first hints of a cold satisfaction take root in those emerald irises of hers. “Yes. Though I think perhaps it’s come to the point where I will change with the times as well.” She stalks away from us without another word, down the street toward the Castel, and does not even look back.

  “Uh, okay?” I say to her retreating back. “We’ll see you here, morning after tomorrow, bright and early and—” She gives me a wave to signal her concord, and that’s about it. She dodges down a side street and is gone a moment later.

  “What do you think she meant by that?” Father Emmanuel asks.

  “Hell if I know,” I say without thinking, and I catch a disappointed look from the priest. “Uh, sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “Use the power that God has given me,” he says. He bows his head to me, then heads off toward the Vatican without another word.

  “Everybody’s gotta be all vague and mysterious,” I say to Dr. Perugini, who is the only one left with me. She’s standing at my side, and I feel her fingers interlace with mine. It feels … good. “Not sure how well this team-up is going to go,” I confess, and as I look at her I can see the reservations that she immediately puts aside.

  “It will go fine,” she says, soothing.

  I speak without thinking, just looking for reassurance. “Really?” I breathe out an aura of hope.

  She half-shrugs, and the uncertainty breaks through. “It kind of h
as to,” she says, and leads me back down the Via della Conciliazione to catch a cab back to our hotel. As we walk in silence, I come to the conclusion that she’s pretty much right.

  68.

  Anselmo

  Lorenzo comes hobbling out of the house around midnight. Anselmo is still staring out across the view below. He never tires of it, not really. It is a perpetual reminder of the power he wields, and that is nothing if not exciting to him.

  “Capo,” Lorenzo says. The boy is favoring his arm. He wears a pained expression, one suitable for a whipped dog, perhaps.

  Anselmo acknowledges him with a lifted drink and little else, and the boy comes to stand beside him. The table is now empty, the others long since gone back to their hotels or their homes. There will come an hour for revelry, and it is soon.

  But not just yet.

  “Capo …” Lorenzo begins, and Anselmo can tell merely by the hesitation that what will follow is certain to be something weak. “Do you ever …” The boy halts himself, and starts again, elsewhere. “The hour draws near.”

  “Si,” Anselmo allows. It is only a little over a day from the fulfillment of the plan, now. Years of effort and planning, drawing to their conclusion.

  “Do you ever …” Lorenzo begins again, “… doubt?” Anselmo gives him a look, and he hastens to explain. “The plan, I mean? Whether we should take these steps, whether they might be too drastic or—”

  “Doubts are for girls,” Anselmo says, dismissing him with utter finality. “Reach down between your legs and let me know if a bullet took your balls from you.”

  Lorenzo blanches. “But, Capo, this plan … it is … bold—”

  “We are men,” Anselmo says, contemptuous. “Men see what they want and take it. The cup of life is ours to drink from, and you want—what? Water instead of wine? You labor under the delusion that things are meant to be asked for, oh so sweetly, ‘May I please …?’ Fah!” Anselmo swipes broadly and spills some of his wine. “Men are not men anymore. They are so polite and cultured, with their perfect hair and nails, like a woman. Well,” he leans close to Lorenzo, “I am a man. I have been a man my whole life. And tomorrow, I will take what I want, and become a god in the process. You know what a god does?” Anselmo cracks a smile, and lets it fade as the seriousness of the thought falls over him. “Whatever the hell he wants.” He tosses the wine glass over the edge, hears it fall and shatter somewhere below, some kind of poignant marker that puts the punctuation on his point for him, and he turns away, leaving Lorenzo standing there alone. “Reach down deep, boy. Find your balls. Join me in godhood, and we’ll take whatever we want from this life—from this country—together.”

  69.

  Reed

  The last day goes pretty damned quickly. I don’t like to think of it as the last day, but it kind of is. It passes in alternating patches of frenzied speed and boredom, usually linked to whatever activity I’m in the middle of at the time. Isabella and I end up having sex several times throughout the day, which—holy hell, is more fun than I remembered, but the moments between are long stretches of awkward silence, especially during meals, which are the only times we leave the hotel. We chew in silence, and it’s terribly uncomfortable. She’s back to being an enigma, a face I can’t read, especially by the end of the day.

  When we come back from dinner, the pensive silence turns even more uncomfortable. I’m thinking about this whole thing, about what I’m going to have to do tomorrow. How I’m going to have to face off against a maniacal killer whose agenda is pretty crazy. He wants to take over a country, for crying out loud.

  We go about the business of getting ready for bed, and I find myself in the strangest circumstances since I helped take on Sovereign six months ago. Maybe stranger, because I’m in charge this time. I fixate on the strangest little details. I set the alarm on my phone, and make sure it’s charged. I floss and brush my teeth, like it’s super important to my performance tomorrow to have good dental hygiene.

  Then I lie in bed and watch TV with Isabella, the evening news playing like there’s not a thing wrong in the world.

  I’m watching the newscaster, who wears these really big, rounded glasses that seem to be in fashion here in Italy, and as I’m watching her speak a language I still can’t decipher to save my life, I realize that if Anselmo gets his way, she’ll be quaking in fear tomorrow. Her and however many Italian citizens there are. Because that’s the kind of big honking douchebag Anselmo is.

  It gives me a moment’s pause to think that standing up to assholes like Anselmo is almost a family tradition for me. My sister did it. My dad did it, and it cost him his life.

  Dad.

  Isabella finally breaks the silence, and it’s almost painful. “You don’t want me to come with you.”

  I’ve seen The Return of the King, and I know what happens when you tell a strong-minded woman not to head out to battle. “I would never tell you not to,” I say, “but this is going to be a really nasty meta fight.”

  “Anselmo could rip my arm off with the thought I give for tearing a wing off a fly,” she says, and there’s a sense of resignation when it comes out. I realize she’s been fighting herself over this all day. “If I had the strength of Diana, I would be there. But as it is, if he saw me, he would come for me, and you would be distracted, I think.”

  I nod. “I think so, yes.”

  “I will stay here,” she says, “until after it has happened, and then I will help with triage.”

  “A sound plan,” I agree because it’s totally logical and reasonable.

  She lowers her voice a little. “Do you want me to tell you that I love you?”

  This catches me a little off guard. “Do you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. But if you need reassurance … I could.”

  “Heh,” I chuckle, but it’s mirthless. “I don’t need you to say it if it’s not true. This thing we’ve been doing, it’s … fun. I know you think you’ve been using me, but … I don’t feel that way. It’s not love, but it’s been …” I flail about for a word, and she interrupts.

  “Lust?”

  “Well, there is that,” I agree. “But I don’t really know you yet, so there’s not a possibility for anything more. We’ve worked together for a while, but I mean … I don’t even know your middle name. Me loving you at this point would be like me filling in the blanks of your personality and history with whatever answers I want. Lots of people do that, they assume the best, but, uh … I’m not like that. I know what we’re doing here.” I take her hand. “I don’t need you to tell me you love me. Just being here … it’s … enough.” And it is.

  She seems to understand and leans her head against my shoulder. She falls asleep like that a short time later, and I stare at the walls until after midnight, when I give up and get dressed quietly. I know there’s no chance of me finding rest now, not in the last few hours I have before this powder keg gets lit up. I get my stuff and get ready to leave, watching her sleep the whole time.

  The truth is, if I had died on the day before I met Sienna Nealon, there would not be a single person left alive who would remember my name to even mourn me. Everyone I know, from Sienna to Isabella, came to me because I met my sister. The embers of my past life are gone—family, friends, everything that was mine before it all scattered to the damned wind.

  Love? Well.

  There’s a first time for everything, I guess.

  I realize I’m ready to go. The clock reads a little after four. There’s not even a hint of dawn from outside the curtains, but I can’t stand sitting here, antsy, any longer. I consider stirring the wind, just slightly, to ruffle Isabella’s hair as I leave, but it reminds me of my dad’s farewell, all those years ago, and I stop myself just in time.

  I close the door silently and go off to meet my destiny.

  70.

  I find Diana loitering at the end of the Via della Conciliazione, looking about as nondescript as an angry woman hanging out on a Roman street can, I guess.
She’s missing her signature golf bag, bound up instead in a hoodie, which gives her kind of an Assassin’s Creed vibe. It fits.

  She acknowledges me with little more than a look as I slide into place by her. The hour is early, damned early, like five in the morning or so. There’s no sunlight yet in the sky, and the chill in the air is not like the Rome of summer I’m familiar with.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks without looking at me.

  “No,” I say. “Can’t imagine why.”

  “I can never sleep before a battle,” she says, shaking her head. “Never, even after all these years.” She glances over at me. “The night after a battle though; then I sleep like the dead.”

  “Hm,” I say, “I guess I haven’t really been in enough classic battles to know what that’s like.”

  “But you’ve fought,” she says.

  “With Sovereign and Omega,” I say. “Sneak attacks almost all the time. Strike and feint, hit and run. Guerilla tactics, no one wanting to stick their neck out and go big and public with it. Except for Sovereign, of course. He went big. But it always felt like we were moving too fast to have a night of preparation before one of those fights. We were just always moving.”

  “I think it is called operational tempo,” she says, though the words sound strange coming from her. “He did move quickly. Wiped out so many of our kind, so very fast.”

  “But you escaped,” I say.

  “I have been a survivor for longer than most,” she says, narrow eyes flicking about underneath the hood. “I survived Zeus’s reign of terror when so many—including my parents—did not. I survived the time of transition when we interred the gods into a place of myth and legend. I have survived much, and I was not going to be finished by some scheming half-wit incubus refugee’s attempt to kill us all in revenge for perceived wrongs.”