by Edale Lane
“I need to do this for me,” he explained, “to become the man I must be to stand up to your father and demand he allows us to wed.”
Her chin fell. “He thinks you are a foolish boy who will get himself killed.”
Antonio lifted it again with an affectionate hand. “He may think me a foolish boy now, but when I have matured and gained the skills and fortitude required to do battle unto death, he will see the fearless, capable man who returns as his equal. And if he does not, I will be prepared to fight him to have you. Would you object to that?” Now his voice was as determined as stone.
She swallowed remembering all the nights spent hiding in her room, all the horrors she tried to block from her mind. “No. I would not object to that at all.”
Chapter 22
After days of unseasonably warm conditions, Florentina suspected that the first winter storm would blow in soon. It was the beginning of December and predicting weather was a tricky proposition for the most progressive atmospheric scientists, but Florentina had taken note that strong storms often initiated or followed unseasonable temperatures. Speaking of which, the wind had started to gust outside and the evening air was cold enough to warrant the first fire in the hearth all week.
Madelena rolled her two dice. “Double fives!” she exclaimed and began moving four of her checkers over the center bar and onto her home board.
Florentina laughed and shook her head. “I may win more often at chess, but you are the queen of Backgammon,” she declared as Maddie joyfully advanced her pieces.
“That’s because Backgammon is just a luck game,” Maddie replied.
“Not so,” Portia corrected from her seat across from them as the women spent the evening in the ladies’ parlor. “There is some strategy involved as well as luck.”
“I suppose,” Maddie shrugged.
“Luck or skill, there is no way I will ever catch up in this game,” Florentina commented as her calf rubbed amorously against Madelena’s.
She noticed the ghost of a smile from Maddie’s delicious lips. “The night is young,” Madelena noted speculatively. “You could always challenge me to a rematch.”
“I thought I was going to play the winner,” Pollonia spoke up.
“And you shall,” Florentina confirmed. “The change in weather is making me sleepy and I think I shall have to turn in early tonight.” Maddie’s flirtatious smile dried up, and she tilted her head questioningly toward Fiore as she completed her double move. Florentina rolled her dice. “A one and a three,” she sighed selecting two checkers to advance. “No, no chance of me catching you.”
Madelena slid her leg away from Florentina’s beneath their full skirts. “The weather has made you sleepy you say? Drivel! You are simply embarrassed to lose twice in a row.” She shot Florentina a hopeful glance.
Not tonight, my love, Florentina thought to herself. The time has come for the Night Flyer’s final act. Alessandro had mentioned at dinner that Viscardi’s warehouses were filled to bursting with weapons of every variety as the French army had cancelled all their orders and he was frantically seeking out new buyers. “He was so angry he even considered selling to the Spanish,” Alessandro had laughed. They all knew Antonio had been sent to Napoli, to the war, but no one dared speak of it around Portia.
Florentina glanced at the petite blonde who feverishly pulled a needle and colored thread through fabric in an attempt to busy herself before turning her eyes back to Maddie. “It is a scientific fact: weather can and does affect people’s mood. It could also be because I haven’t had enough sleep recently,” she added with a subtle wink.
Madelena rolled her dice, biting back a giggle. She flashed those dazzling verdant green eyes of hers at Fiore before returning them to the game. “Six and four,” she declared and moved her final two pieces onto her home board. “But you still have a chance to catch me,” she teased as she rubbed her leg against Florentina’s again and smiled invitingly.
Florentina met her gaze and every emotion of joy, pleasure, and exhilaration they had been sharing in private moments flooded over her like a tidal wave. She had never known she could feel so happy, so alive, or so terrified. Once I finish with Viscardi, I can put this whole vendetta and the persona of the Night Flyer behind me. Then I will no longer be keeping secrets from you, no longer forced to explain myself with white lies, no longer sharing my nights with a mission rather than you. It ends tonight, and then I’m all yours.
“I’m willing to bet a storm is on the way in just a few hours,” Florentina predicted, “and we should all be tucked warmly in our beds before it arrives.”
“A frigid wind has picked up outside,” Portia noted with a backward glance toward the darkened window.
“That it has,” spoke a resonate male voice from the doorway.
“Papa!” Pollonia hopped up and ran to him. “Your hair is mussed.” She stretched her hand way up to smooth it for him.
“Yes, I have been outside checking on things and I must agree with Florentina. A storm is brewing for certs. May I suggest we retire for the evening?”
Portia lay her embroidery aside and flowed to him on delicate feet. “I’m ready if you are,” she agreed taking his arm.
Madelena gave Florentina a disappointed look and sighed. “Pollonia, it seems we will have to have our game tomorrow night.” Then she proceeded to roll double sixes and march all of her playing pieces home.
Florentina laughed and brushed Maddie’s arm incidentally. “No catching you tonight,” she delivered cryptically, with a barely contained smile pulling at the corners of her mouth and a sensual gleam in her eyes. “Perhaps another time I’ll come out on top.”
“You come out on top often enough,” Maddie replied flirtatiously. Then she stood with a sigh. “But Alessandro is correct; we must all be off to sleep. Good night Ally, Portia,” she called after them as they left the parlor with their daughter. “And good night to you, too, I suppose,” she said quietly to Fiore.
Florentina stood, and they walked out together close enough for their shoulders to brush and for her to detect the electric rush she always felt at Madelena’s touch. “Sleep well, Maddie. I’ll see you in the morning.” Maddie reached to give her fingers a little squeeze before they turned toward their own portions of the residence.
It was exceedingly difficult to walk away. Such a night was perfect for snuggling in bed with the fabulous woman she loved. And if the wind howled and rain beat upon the window panes, it might indeed provide the impetus for them to take the plunge. I wonder what it will be like? Florentina thought as she climbed the servants’ stairs. The pleasure, the wonderfulness that I feel just kissing her, touching her, holding her in my arms is beyond description… what will it be like to experience ultimate ecstasy? I don’t see how I could contain even more sensations. Will I dissolve into a puddle or explode into a million pieces? I don’t know if I can stand it. Then she smiled to herself. Oh, but do I want to find out!
The Night Flyer stood in an alley two streets over from Viscardi’s block, obscured in the dark of a moonless, starless night. It was well after midnight and between the wind and first drops of freezing precipitation, the streets were deserted. She moved into the middle of the lane, held out her arms, and closed her eyes letting a gust blow over her. The weather could help or it could hurt her plan. A strong gale could catch neighboring buildings ablaze, but rain could reduce the chances of that happening. Wind is coming from the north, she reasoned. The only thing south of Viscardi’s warehouses is his mansion. That has to be destroyed as well, but his wife and daughter and any servants must be evacuated. I have only one target and don’t want innocent bystanders harmed.
She had all of her regular gear along with a few new additions. The black bag that had once held sacks of coins was now filled with sealed clay jars containing crude oil, an inky thick liquid from Constantinople. The Italians called it naphtha, and her father had kept a small quantity for experiments. Together with the pouches of sulfur, saltpeter, cha
rcoal powder, and quicklime, Florentina brought with her the ingredients for Greek Fire. They can throw as much water on it as they like, she thought, but that will only make it spread. Tonight House Viscardi burns.
Leonardo da Vinci had never written down the formula, but he could not resist the challenge of discovering it for himself. Fortunately for Florentina, the master’s focus was so singular when he worked that he was often oblivious to the world around him, and the people in it. Add that to his penchant for talking to himself as he worked, and she had learned more from the master than he ever imagined. When he did notice her in his workshop as the euphoria of success lit his eyes, he swore her to secrecy. “It was one thing for the Byzantines to use this as a defensive weapon against enemy ships encroaching upon their shores,” he warned her gravely, “but can you imagine the potential for civilian casualties if our modern warlord kings were to unleash it on a city?” She shuddered just remembering his tone. Leonardo may have made the majority of his income from weapons contracts, but he would never allow this secret to fall into the hands of politicians or generals.
She hoped the freezing rain would prevent the fire’s spread, but at least other buildings, were they to catch, could be put out with water; only the warehouses and mansion where she would plant the unstoppable inferno would burn into ashes.
Florentina stood for another moment, arms outstretched feeling the ice droplets pelt her body and took in a deep breath of cold air then slowly let it out. She repeated this several times to calm and steady herself for what lay ahead. She had a plan, but would most certainly be called upon to improvise. It is time.
The night was perfect. Total darkness, save for a few street lamps, hid her approach, and the noise from the storm drowned out all other sounds. First she rounded the farthest structure, scouting out the placement of guards huddled into doorways. Each entry to the three warehouses sported two guards, but she was not certain how many waited inside. Noticeable surge in security there, Benetto; are you afraid of someone? she thought in proud amusement.
The Night Flyer circled back to the alley side of the farthest warehouse which had only one door. She crept closer and felt a chill as cold moisture penetrated her clothing, but the blood pumping through her veins was red hot. She crouched against the wall only a few feet from where two hired men who had no stake in Viscardi’s fortunes hunched with woolen cloaks wrapped around them trying to avoid the numbing, wind-driven sleet. They both had swords hanging from their belts and a spear was propped against the building as they rubbed their hands together to keep warm. She waited.
Presently one said, “I have to step inside for just a moment, get something hot to drink. Do you want I should bring you a cup?”
“Si, si,” the other eagerly agreed. And then there was one.
Florentina withdrew a dark brown bottle from one of the pouches on her belt and damped a cloth with the ether. In a swift, sudden move, she lunged from her crouch, grabbed the guard from behind, and pressed the wet rag to his face. He tensed and tried to struggle for an instant. He was not a big man, actually shorter than she was, though a bit thicker. In just a few breaths he fell limp in her arms, and she dragged him away from the doorway and laid him out on the sidewalk. Then she moved to the side of the doorway, plastered herself with her back to the wall, re-dosed the cloth, and waited.
“Here you go, Teodor,” a voice sang out. “Nice and hot. Teodor? Where are you?” The figure stepped through the lintel searching for his counterpart. She pounced, and two cups of steaming liquid clattered to the paving stones. His limp, unconscious body soon joined them.
Cautiously, the Night Flyer eased inside. The vast, high roofed structure was dark, save for a small sliver of light passing through the windows on the opposite side facing the main thoroughfare. Outside a lone oil street lamp’s flame flickered safe from wind and wet inside its glass dome. The warehouses were constructed with many windows to allow maximum natural light, as it would be infeasible to light the huge expanse with candles and oil lamps. Since almost all work was done during the daytime, it was the sensible architectural devise to employ.
Her eyes were already adjusted to the dim illumination, so she used them to scan the chamber while listening intently for any sounds. The indomitable rat was the only creature her keen senses detected, so she slowly made her way toward the center. Full to the brim, she noted as there were crates, boxes, barrels, and bags stacked from wall to wall about waist high leaving walking trails between them. Once she judged herself to be about in the middle, she stopped and used a hook on her grappling device to pry open a crate. This one held wooden handled lances with steel points. Perfect, she thought considering the flammable product.
Florentina removed two clay jars of naphtha and set one inside the crate. She opened the other one and proceeded to pour a small trickle forming a line about ten paces to the north, then returning to ground zero, she did the same in every direction, some paths crossing crates and others along the floor, until the jar was empty and she had created a design akin to spokes radiating from the hub of a wheel. Next, she opened the second jar and measured out a prescribed portion of the power ingredients and stirred them in with a wooden spoon she brought from their kitchen for this purpose.
It was all prepared, everything laid out correctly. In moments the entire building would be engulfed in an inexorable conflagration. She had left herself a path of retreat, of course, back to the door from which she entered, and had been extra careful not to spill a drop on herself. She had no intentions of bonding with St. Joan in that way! Florentina drew out the small tin containing her sulfur matches. While the original Greek Fire had been spewed from a distance as a burning liquid, she planned to simply ignite it in place.
The Night Flyer broke the jar of prepared oleaginous fluid over the lances in their crate, but before she could strike the match, she heard the scuffle of feet.
“Stop, you!” shouted a deep voice. She turned and saw four guards spread out blocking her escape route. Still holding the match and box at the ready, she took a deep breath. Time to improvise.
Chapter 23
Two guards drew swords while the other pair fumbled to load and ready crossbows. The Night Flyer struck the match and let it fall. She dropped to the floor and rolled away as a booming sound accompanied the flaming cloud that surged toward the high ceiling. Springing to her feet, she watched rows of fire burst forth from the hub, streaking out along the oil lines filling the chamber with light, smoke, and a starburst of flame. The guards stepped back, instinctively raising a free arm to cover their faces. One, however, had been standing on a line of naphtha that caught his boots afire straightaway. She heard his scream and saw him leap into a terrified dance as his sword clattered to the floor.
“Kick off your boots, you oaf!” Florentina shouted in a low-pitched voice. “And stop hopping about unless you want to burn to death.” She rapidly weaved through crates, some of which were beginning to blaze, toward a row of windows. “If there is gunpowder in here, I suggest you run!”
Two crossbow bolts whizzed past her, one lodging in a crate and another into the wall. Smoke obscured the air between her and the guards giving their shots slim chances of striking their mark.
“Help me!” The frantic man plopped to the floor amid rivers of fire and burned his hands tugging off his fiery boots. One of his cohorts rushed over, caught him under his arms, and began to drag him away toward the door. The other two dashed out ahead of them sounding the alarm.
Florentina tore off the lid of a wooden box and slammed it through the windows across the large room from where the guards made their escape, sending shards of glass shooting out into the frigid night, followed by a figure in black. Bells began to ring and shouts went up as smoke billowed forth and flames shimmered in a macabre dance. One down, she thought, and vanished into the darkness.
Benetto was awakened by the uproar and had just thrown on his clothing when Stefano burst through his bedroom door. “One of the warehouses is
on fire!” he hollered breathlessly after running up the stairs.
“I gathered as much,” Benetto spat out in bitter reply. “You stay in the house,” he commanded his wife. “I’ll deal with this.”
“It’s the farthest one,” Stefano continued the report as his older brother followed him out. Benetto’s man at arms, Zuane, had rushed in and met them at the bottom of the staircase.
Benetto barked orders to him. “I want half of our men putting out that fire. Then divide the rest between guarding the other two warehouses and chasing down that damnable Night Flyer. No excuses this time!” he bellowed. “Burn down my warehouse, will you,” he muttered to himself as the three men marched toward the front door of Casa de Viscardi. “I’ll kill you myself,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
Zuane rushed off to distribute the hired men to their tasks and Stefano grabbed the butler who had ventured into the entry hall. “You go find a city watchman and call for a fire brigade,” he instructed. The startled butler nodded then scrambled away, dashing down the street.
“He picked the worst night of the year,” Benetto complained as he stepped out into the frosty air and icy precipitation. “But the freezing rain will help extinguish the flames.”
“I guess he wasn’t so smart this time,” Stefano commented. “We’ll get him for sure.”
Benetto said nothing, only crossed his arms over his chest and scowled as he looked toward the burning warehouse. He wasn’t certain. That tricky bastard was up to something; he didn’t make simple mistakes. A strange and disconcerting feeling began to boil in Benetto’s gut, twisting his insides painfully even as his hatred rose. What if this was it? What if Don Benetto Viscardi was beaten at last, and by whom? Some masked highwayman? No. He must have been sent by them… a nameless, faceless marauder sent by a nameless, faceless secret society that for whatever reason wished to destroy him. How could he fight such a foe? But he would, by God; he would fight!
