by Brenda Drake
I so want to sneak a look, but I stay put and wait. “Is he there?”
“Yeah, just came around the corner. Guess that woman wasn’t a good enough distraction. Shit.” He drops down. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What?” I hiss.
He shakes his head and places his pointer finger to his mouth to quiet me. “That demon god’s with him,” he whispers.
“Pazuzu?” I cover my mouth to stop the terrified sob from escaping.
Inching up the wall, Marek peeks over it. He’s up there longer than is comfortable for me. They could spot him.
In every scary movie I’ve seen that featured Pazuzu, he was terrifying. He’s the worst in The Exorcist, when he possesses that little girl and makes her do all sorts of evil stuff, and I don’t want to find out how he is in real life.
As I sit on my heels, the fear catches up. A demon god is after us. In this moment, where quiet rests around me and the only noise I can hear is people on the street and the occasional vehicle driving by, my mind is all over the place. I forgot to take my pill last night. And this morning. I was going to take one with breakfast, but Ares distracted me.
Panic builds like blowing up a piece of gum. It expands and expands and expands until it bursts.
They’re going to sense us. Sid said one of us was emitting some sort of energy. Catnip to the gods. That’s what he told me. It’s just a matter of time before they find us.
They could kill us.
I tug out Dad’s lighter from my pocket and tighten my fist around it. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rock back and forth.
Back and forth.
We’re going to die. We’re going to die. We’re going to die!
My heart is rapid and painful in my chest, and I can’t get enough air.
It’s not a heart attack.
I’m panicking.
Clammy palms. Out of control.
Dad’s lighter grounds me.
Marek squats back down. “They’re coming this way,” he whispers.
Breathe.
Remember what Dr. Herrera taught you. You can control this. Use the 3-3-3 rule. Focus. What do I see? I look around.
Copper vines decorate the length of the wall that we’re hiding behind. There’s a busted brick at the corner just near Marek’s foot. A rust-colored stain on the step in front of me. Could be blood. Stop. It’s not blood. Probably someone dropped a to-go container of pasta or something.
Marek dares another look over the wall. “They passed us. Spanish god is talking to someone on the phone.”
My arms and legs shake.
Breathe.
“Okay, they’re gone,” he says and pounds down the steps but stops when I don’t follow him. “What’s wrong?”
I just shake my head, unable to answer. His shirt is blue.
What do you hear?
Cars pass. Voices. A man and woman exchanging words in Italian somewhere. Not too close. Music. Someone’s playing a violin or viola. They need more lessons.
He kneels on the top step, right over the bloodstain, and places his hands on my knees. “Ana.”
I inhale. Tears form in my eyes and blur his face.
“It’s okay,” he directs. “They’re gone. You’ll be okay. We have each other. We’ll get through this. If you want to stop, we’ll stop. Go home.”
What do you smell?
The hotel soap clinging to Marek’s skin. A sour smell, like there’s a trash can nearby. Someone’s cooking. It’s spicy.
Rolling my neck, I stretch my fingers and toes.
I blink, and the tears fall from my eyelashes. “I just need a minute,” I say between breaths. “Are you sure…they’re…he’s gone.”
“Yes. A black SUV picked them up.”
I study his almost-straight teeth while he’s talking.
He doesn’t get impatient while waiting for me to gather myself. His concern is genuine. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in the gentle squeeze of his hands on my knees.
The tightness in my chest subsides, and a calmness relaxes my tense muscles. That man who said he’s Ares mentioned that Adam Conte wasn’t my ally, but Marek sure feels like he’s mine.
“I’m ready,” I say, slipping the lighter back into my pocket.
“You sure?”
I nod, wiping away my tears, then brushing my wet fingers across my jeggings.
His brows push together as he studies my face. “You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired. I saw a hotel down the street. We should get a room and go to this crypt tomorrow. Besides, we’d only have a few hours to find whatever clue is hidden there. And I think the finger bone is like a puzzle piece and it’s going to take time to locate its owner. Okay?”
“Good idea,” he says.
We stay on the side of the road that’s covered in shade from the trees, keeping alert for either a black SUV or Pazuzu and his friend.
I really misjudged that Spanish god. He seemed kind. Picked up a toy for a baby, even.
Once while we were reading a tale about Loki, the Norse god who was always causing trouble, Dad teased, “Be careful of the trickster gods, Ana.”
Well, apparently, I have crappy judgment.
If I can’t tell the difference, I’m screwed.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun is out today, and dappled light slips through the leaves of the trees lining the road that is home to Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini chapel. The Capuchin Crypt is situated beneath it.
Marek looks different today. Taller? Straighter, maybe? I thought he was attractive from the first time I met him, but there’s something more to him now.
There’s a small line forming outside the wrought-iron gates, waiting for the crypt to open. Three groups—two couples and four older men. I’m not sure if we should trust them. As it is now, I don’t believe anyone.
“Ready to see some dead monks?” Marek smirks and crosses the street.
I hurry to his side, working hard to keep up with his long gait. “Can you quit with the dead references already? Two was funny. You were pushing it at three during breakfast. Now it’s just tired.”
He stops in the middle of the road. “You wound me.”
I grab his arm and pull him out of the way of oncoming traffic. “If you’re not careful, they’ll have another dead body to add to their collection in that crypt.”
“That’s not funny.” He frowns.
“See?”
He shakes his head and steps up on the curb.
We get in line and wait.
On the other side of the gate, fixed to the brick wall, is a plaque with a three-dimensional woman in flowing robes. There’re two infants at her feet and a crest underneath her. The writing on the stone is in Italian or Latin, so I don’t know what it says, but my bet is the woman is Santa Maria, since the chapel is named after her.
Marek faces the street, looking out for anyone recognizable while I read the stuff about the crypt I printed in the hotel’s business center earlier this morning.
The pocket in his jacket is bulging out, the metal box hiding there. It’s in the shop’s bag Marek got when he bought the postcards. If there’s security, hopefully the box will pass off as a souvenir.
His head tilts in my direction, and a smile pushes up his cheeks, causing a hint of dimples to appear in each one. There’s a worry behind his eyes. He thinks I may break down again. What he doesn’t know is that I have it under control. I missed taking my meds a few days in a row and consumed a lot of caffeine yesterday. Add the incredibly stressful situation we’re in and an attack was bound to happen.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him.
“I didn’t say anything.” He looks directly into my eyes, then sneaks a glance at my lips, and it stills me.
W
hat was that? He keeps looking there. Do I have weird lips? I make a slow 360 turn, pretending to search the street, running my fingers across my mouth to see if any breakfast remains are hanging out there. I don’t feel anything.
The line moves, and we shuffle along with the crowd. When we enter, everyone’s voices lower to a whisper out of respect for the dead. We skip the museum, walking through it and going straight to the crypt.
“I wonder how many people a day say ‘I see dead people’ while entering this museum?” He laughs, pleased at his joke.
My lips press together to suppress a laugh. “I’m not sure that joke is appropriate in a monk’s crypt.”
The corridor is lit only by small windows and dim electric candles.
“I see you holding back.” Amusement strikes his eyes. “You think it’s funny.”
I chuckle and abruptly stop in front of one of the rooms.
There are so many bones and skulls, my mind can’t process what I’m seeing. Human bones. Thousands. Elaborately stacked against the walls and arranged into a baroque pattern. Thigh bones and skulls fashioned into arches and benches. Some are even crafted into chandeliers that hang from the ceiling.
“Holy shit,” Marek says a little too loud. His eyes go wide, and he looks around to see if anyone heard him before lowering his voice. “It’s like bone wallpaper.”
There’s a smell I can’t quite place. Damp earth and must with a hint of rot.
“That had to take a lot of time,” I say. “Separating every bone from thousands of skeletons, cleaning them, and arranging them into art like this. Who’d do that?”
We continue down the arched corridor decorated with more bones. Each room we pass is closed off by wrought-iron gates. There’s the Crypt of Skulls, Crypt of the Leg Bones and Thigh Bones, and the Crypt of Pelvises. In each room, there are full skeletons wearing monk robes, the hoods covering their skulls. None of them are missing a finger.
After several hours staring at the macabre structures, I want to give up. A long sigh deflates my lungs. “I was sure the clue was here,” I say.
“The finger bone is the same yellowy color as these,” he says and ruffles his hair as if he’s trying to shake bugs off.
He’s probably feeling like insects are crawling all over him. I know I am.
I scratch my arm. “What do you want to do?”
Marek’s eyes run over the bone sculptures again. “I guess we should go.”
“I am disappointed.” A man’s voice comes from behind us. An Italian accent hangs on his words. “The great Adam Conte’s grandson gives up so easily.”
Marek and I spin around at the same time and come face-to-face with a man in his mid-twenties who’s a little taller than Marek and is wearing jeans and a tweed jacket. The man’s hair is brown, short, and wavy. Nose long. He crosses his arms as he scrutinizes us. His amber eyes shift between Marek and me.
Not a word passes between us for several breaths. I can tell the man is waiting for one of us to say something.
I bite. “Who are you?”
He smiles, and his teeth are bright white against his olive skin. “I’m Janus.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” I snap, using Dad’s old phrase because what I really want to say wouldn’t be proper for where we are. “Janus, huh? The god, Janus? Like, as in the god of beginnings, doorways or gates, and endings.”
“You forgot time and passages,” the man says.
“Wait.” Marek’s attention turns to Janus. “How do you know who we are?”
“Because you’re the mirror image of Adam at your age.”
“You’re too young to know him when he was my age,” Marek retorts.
“He probably saw pictures of him back then,” I reason.
Janus smirks. “Could be. But I’ve been friends with Adam since his years at Oxford. Before he took over things for his father.”
“He’s a god, Marek,” I say. “And he’s immortal.”
“What do you want?” Marek fists his hands, readying to defend us.
“You will only believe me after following where the next clue leads.” Janus isn’t smiling anymore.
A line of tourists coming from the museum shuffles down the corridor. At the sight of the first bone room, some gasp while others take a step back. Frightened expressions. Surprised looks. The crypt’s peculiar decorations captivate them all.
Janus steps closer so he can whisper, “But first, you must show me the treasure he left you.”
Marek makes a play for his pocket, and I drop my hand on his arm to stop him. “No. He’s a stranger. We don’t know if we can trust him.”
“Your grandfather came to me many years ago,” Janus says. “He asked that I be the keeper of your legacy. Hold out your hand.”
Janus removes something from his pocket and keeps it fisted inside his hand.
Marek glances at me, and I shrug. He lifts his arm, and Janus drops a ring onto Marek’s open palm.
There is silence as Marek twists and turns the ring in his hand, studying it. The ring, dull with age, is gold with a crest in the middle.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Your grandfather’s Oxford ring,” Janus says.
“This could be anyone’s.” Marek holds the ring out to Janus.
Janus doesn’t take it. “Read the name and the inscription inside.”
Marek examines it. The left corner of his mouth tugs up, then his eyes gloss. He swallows and clears his throat. “It’s his.”
“What does it say?” I ask.
He hands me the ring and turns his head from us to gather his emotions. I read the inscription. Adam R. Conte – “What we think, we become.” Buddha
“How do you know it’s his?” I ask.
Marek faces us, and I pass the ring back to him. “It’s his favorite saying. Said it to me all the time.”
“Yes,” Janus says. “He was obsessed with it.”
“Why did he give this to you?” Marek asks.
“To pass it on to you,” Janus says, “and so that you would believe me when this day came.” His head snaps in the direction of the tourists getting nearer. “It’s about to get crowded here.” He holds up his hand in the direction of the tourists, and a blue light blocks the corridor.
I stumble back and quickly balance myself. “How did you… What is that?” I’m not sure which question to ask.
“It’s an old parlor trick I learned.” He winks as if he didn’t just create a blue shield thing in front of me. “You learn a lot of things when you’re immortal.”
He just made a bunch of people freeze in place, and I’m wondering if we are hanging out in a crypt full of bones and skeletons with a man that just might possibly have the power to send us to the next life.
Janus’s mouth is a straight line. “Now, the box?”
Marek yanks the box out from his pocket.
“Open it,” Janus directs.
He spins the combination code into the box, lifts the lid, and tilts it for Janus to see.
Janus’s eyes go to the box, then to us, and he grins. “Very good.” He looks directly at Marek. “I will say, you have put Analiese in danger by bringing her into this. With knowledge comes great risks.” Now his eyes go to me. “Do you want to turn back?”
Do I want to turn back? I don’t think I have the option. He said with knowledge comes great risks. Sid’s words replay in my head. You, my dear, have walked into the middle of a battle between gods. I am in the center of whatever is going on. My parents were, too.
Marek steps a little in front of me. “How is she in danger? We have no idea what’s going on. It’s all confusing.”
I back up, hitting the wrought-iron gate, reminding me that we’re in a crypt with the remains of thousands of monks. A chill licks my skin, and I’m sure I hear haunted voices.
&nbs
p; I decide to jump in.
“There was a list in Mr. Conte’s things,” I say. “My name and my parents’ names are on it. Do you know what it is?” I leave out the part where everyone on the list is either dead or missing.
Janus stares at my face for what seems like the longest second ever. “If Marek chooses to take you along to where the bone leads, you, too, will find your answers.”
“What was my grandfather up to?” Marek searches for answers to his own questions.
“You were his progeny. His successor. Just as his predecessor did, and all the predecessors before him, he was preparing you for this role. That’s all I can tell you. You’re about to walk through a door where you’ll find the answers to your questions.”
“What if I don’t want this? Whatever it is.”
Janus’s mouth twists down. My heart beats as fast as a rabbit’s facing the fangs of a snake. Janus may be a friend of Adam Conte, he may be sworn to help and protect Marek, but he has no responsibilities to me. My intuition yells at me to not trust him.
“You go home,” Janus says. “It’s either accept your role or lose out on your inheritance. No gray area. No door number three. It’s a sizeable sum of money, so you should consider that. You and your grandmother will be penniless otherwise.”
Bingo. I knew there was a catch.
“They’re not my rules,” Janus says, his voice calm and calculating. “Blame your predecessors.”
Marek turns and takes a few steps away from us. He stares at the thousand or so skulls piled neatly, faces out, and formed into arches against the wall across from him. A chandelier made out of human bones hangs from the ceiling. It’s a reminder of what we all end up being when we die. Just a pile of bones. Except for Janus. He can live forever.
Janus and I avoid eye contact as we wait for Marek to turn around. When he does, Marek has a determined look on his face. He comes to me and takes my hands in his.
“I’m going forward,” he says. “You can go back. I won’t blame you. This is some messed-up shit.”
A slight smile tugs at my lips. He’s delusional to think Janus would let me leave here and go home. He said it himself. I know too much. There was a point when I could’ve walked away from all this, but that time is gone. I’m in as deep as Marek is now. There’s no return for me. I can only go forward. Find out why everyone knows who the hell I am and why Ares thinks I’ll give him whatever we find at the end of this journey.
