Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  “Got here as fast as we could,” Matt said.

  Luc returned his attention to the other street.

  Matt followed his gaze. The narrow road, pressed between three-story buildings, extended a little over a block before curving out of view. Black iron bars of various styles encased all the first floor windows on either side, relics left from Tuscan house wars. Open shutters framed the upper windows. “What are you looking at?”

  “Third door on the right,” Luc said, subtly pointing that direction.

  Squinting, Matt peered at the dark wooden door about forty feet away. Thick stone molding outlined the entrance, blackened by years of soot and exhaust. “What am I looking at?”

  “Top middle.” Luc glanced around. “I haven’t seen anyone. Go. Look closer.”

  Matt checked his compass. Still pink.

  He motioned to Luiza, and they made their way down the alley. He tried to look casual, hand resting on his bag just above the access slit. Luiza walked beside him. The street was too small for even a sidewalk.

  A monstrous bronze knocker stared out from the center of the door, sculpted like a lion’s head. The ring in its mouth formed two women curving down to an etched sphere in their outstretched hands. Matt’s gaze moved up to the top of the door. The stone border was chipped and worn, its carved details eroded nearly away. At the center above the door, the molding blossomed into the shape of an oval shield, held up by a pair of winged creatures. An elaborate fleur-de-lis adorned the right upper section of the shield.

  Matt stopped.

  A long, winged serpent, its feminine head raised as if to strike, decorated the oval’s bottom.

  It’s been here the whole damned time.

  Luiza removed a gray camera from her bag and turned it on.

  “What are you doing?” Matt hissed. He scanned the streets on either side. A teenage girl walked up the street a block away, her attention apparently hostage to the phone in her hands.

  “If they’ve seen us, then we’ve already been seen.” The camera whirred, its lens telescoping out. It beeped, snapping a picture. “Otherwise we’re just another pair of tourists photographing every door in the city.”

  If Anya’s people were inside they’d know what every one of the knights looked like. Did they know they’d followed them to Florence? Matt glanced back at the girl. She was getting closer.

  The sharp click came from the door. Matt’s fingers slid into the bag, finding Dämoren’s ivory grip.

  The door pulled open and a slender man with thinning hair stepped out. He glanced at Matt and Luiza standing just a few feet in front of him. No acknowledgement. No familiarity. He reached into his pocket.

  Matt cocked Dämoren.

  The man withdrew a ring of jingling keys and turned to lock the door behind him.

  Matt ground his teeth. Either this man was an incredible actor, or simply a local seeing some tourists outside his house. Luiza was giving him a ‘What do we do’ look. Matt glanced at Luc still at the end of the street, standing a bit straighter than he had a moment ago. The full moon was a day away. There wasn’t time for caution.

  “Excuse me sir,” Matt said in Italian, no idea where he was going with it. “Is this your home?”

  The man turned, giving Matt a puzzled look. “Yes.”

  “My name is Walter Franks. I’m an author.” Removing his hand from the bag, Matt gestured to the symbol above the door. “I noticed the crest above your door and wasn’t familiar with it.”

  The man looked up to where Matt pointed.

  Luiza shot Matt a wide-eyed look. “What are you doing?” she mouthed.

  “Play along,” he whispered back in English. Matt looked to the man. “I’m writing a book on Florentine heraldry and happened to see that. Do you know what family it is?”

  “My mother said it was an old family. Barugni or something. I don’t know.”

  “Your mother knows?” Matt asked. “Could we contact her? I’m very interested to know more about it.”

  The man’s mouth opened in hesitation. He held up a hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

  “I will pay for your time, of course,” Matt said, reaching for his wallet. “Will one hundred be enough, Mister...”

  The man’s hand lowered. “Celestini.”

  Matt withdrew a hundred euro note. “Mister Celestini, I would very much like to add this crest to our catalog. Might we speak with your mother about it?”

  The man smiled. “Yes. Please, call me Gianni. I’m sure she would love to speak with an interested author. Could she call you tomorrow?”

  Matt gave an exaggerated wince. “Unfortunately my associate and I have to be in Rome tomorrow.” He slid another hundred partially out from his wallet. “Could you help us now?”

  Gianni’s smile widened. All teeth. “Of course. Please, come inside.” He turned to unlock the door.

  “What did you say to him?” Luiza hissed, low and sharp.

  “I told him about the book we’re doing on lost heraldic symbols. He said his mother knows the history of it.”

  “His mother?”

  “Yeah.” Matt pulled the phone from his pocket and called Luc.

  Gianni opened the door and gestured Matt and Luiza inside.

  “Yes?” Luc answered, his tone curious.

  “Hi Alexi,” Matt said in French, holding a finger up to Gianni. “Look, something came up and we’ll be a little late. Just stay there and listen to the presentation for me. We shouldn’t be too long.” Before Luc could speak, Matt turned the phone’s speaker down as low as it could go and slipped it, still on, into his pocket. Please don’t hang up. Smiling, he motioned Luiza, ‘After you,’ and they followed Gianni inside.

  “Mama?” Gianni said closing the door.

  Matt swallowed, his hand resting on his bag. The house smelled vaguely of lavender and old pipe smoke. A red and white vase rested on the entry table beside them, the leaves of its artificial flowers slightly faded. A metal crucifix adorned the opposite wall. A good sign.

  “Yes, dear?” a woman’s voice called from further inside.

  They followed Gianni through a tiny living room and into a cream-colored kitchen painted with yellow flowers. Matt could see a little courtyard through the window. An old woman sat at a narrow table in a side nook, hunkered over a printed word puzzle. She looked up, pencil still in her hand.

  “Mama,” Gianni said. “These people would like to talk to you. They’re writing a book and have some questions about the markings on the door.”

  Matt offered his hand. “Walter Franks, ma’am. This is my partner... Maria Estrada.”

  She shook his hand. Her old skin felt like tissue paper. She motioned them to sit. “Are you Tuscan?”

  “Me?” Matt said, taking a seat. “No, ma’am, I’m American.”

  She smiled warmly. “Your accent is Tuscan. I would have guessed you local.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Zita. Gian,” she said, to her son. “Bring something for our guests. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Matt said.

  Gianni hurried over to the coffee machine in the corner.

  Matt shifted his bag onto his lap below the table. “Zita, as your son said, I am writing a book about lost family crests in Italy. I noticed the symbol above your door and didn’t recognize it. Gianni said you might know something about it.”

  The old woman nodded and pushed her puzzle aside. “That is the Barugnani family crest. They built the original house in 1601. Of course, it was very different back then.” She smiled. “Bombings destroyed the back part during the war. The front stonework is still original.”

  “Barugnani?” Matt repeated loud enough to hope Luc could hear him. He didn’t have any notepad in his satchel and wouldn’t have risked opening it if he did. Not with Dämoren and a machine pistol inside. “Can I have your tablet?” he asked Luiza.

  She removed the computer from her bag and turned it on.

  “How do
you spell that?” Matt asked Zita. He tapped the letters in as she did.

  Gianni set a pair of tiny white cups on the table, their foamy contents dusted with cocoa.

  “How long have you lived here?” Matt asked.

  “I grew up in this house,” Zita said. “My grandfather was the first of my family to live here.”

  “So you are not related to the Barugnani family?”

  “Oh no,” she laughed. “That family has been gone for a long time.”

  “Gone?” Matt asked.

  She nodded. “Gian, go upstairs and bring us my family box. The gray one.”

  The thin man obediently hurried away.

  “I have all the information on them with our genealogy records,” Zita said. “A hobby I picked up from my mother.” She motioned to the coffees. “Please drink, Gian will only be a minute.”

  Matt and Luiza shared a look. A tension in her lips told him ‘no’, but he didn’t want to offend the old woman, not when she could help them.

  He took a sip. It tasted good. Not as good as the hotel’s or even Luiza’s at the chateau. He didn’t notice any tang of poison, not that he really knew what to taste for. Malcolm claimed the snake tattoo on his arm could warn him of poisons, and Matt really wished he was here now. Never thought I’d wish for that.

  “So you research your family tree?” Matt asked, hoping to distract the old woman from the fact Luiza wasn’t drinking.

  “Yes,” she said. “At least I used to. Haven’t looked at it in several years. It’s a bit exciting.”

  “Really?” Matt asked.

  “Oh yes. Lots of secrets come out.” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “Scandals your family never knew or didn’t tell you.”

  “I can imagine.” He pursed his lips. “So if you’re not related to the Barugnani family, why research them?”

  “Once you’ve found all about your own family that you can, you still need something to research.” She shrugged. “My mother found a few papers during the restoration, so I added to them. The house is part of our family so...I decided to learn where it came from.”

  Footsteps clomped down the stairs and Gianni came in carrying a gray, plastic file box. “This one?”

  “Yes,” Zita said. “Bring it here.”

  Grunting, Gianni heaved it into an empty chair beside the old woman and opened it. Dozens of yellow folders, each labeled in crisp black writing and packed with papers, filled the box.

  “Here we go,” Zita said, flipping through the bent tabs. She removed a thin folder and opened it on the table. “The Barugnani family.”

  “What do you know about them?” Matt asked, leaning closer.

  The old woman squinted over the page, running her finger along the text. “It was an old family. Merchants, but not very important. In...1578 Guittone Barugnani gained favor with the Medici’s who encouraged a marriage with Imalda Veronesi. Her dowry made the family very rich. In 1580 she gave birth to their only son, Marco. Guittone died of a sudden illness in 1593, leaving thirteen year old Marco head of the family.”

  Zita leaned closer. “Marco Barugnani , now there was a scoundrel. He was said to be beautiful and quite brilliant. His rivals also had a tendency of dying. They said that no woman, or man, could refuse his charm. Eventually rumors of scandal became too much and he chose to leave Florence and founded the village of San Pettiro in 1608.”

  “What rumors?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, many,” Zita said. “Some said he had seduced the Grand Duchess, even fathering one of her children. Others branded him a devil worshiper. And instead of punishment or assassination, do you know what the Grand Duke did?

  Devil worshiper? Matt shrugged.

  “He gave him title and a village to rule.”

  Matt snorted. “That was generous.”

  Zita gave a small smile. “Grand Duke Fernando the First died the following year.”

  “So the crest?” Matt asked. “That was Marco’s crest, or the family crest from before his title?”

  Zita flipped through several pages, finally stopping at one, and offering it to Matt. The foreign words meant nothing to him, though the grainy photocopy of a shield blazoned with a styled fleur-de-lis was understandable.

  “That crest was the family’s. Marco added the basilisk,” Zita said.

  “So what happened to Marco?” Matt asked, sliding the page to Luiza.

  “He ruled San Pettiro for several years, but eventually rumors came out that Marco was a devil worshiper and had kidnapped several local girls. Tales of his wickedness reached Rome and Inquisitors were sent.”

  “They tried him?” Matt asked.

  Zita shook her head. “No. When they arrived at his castle, they found Marco Barugnani and his household had all been gruesomely murdered.”

  “Murdered? By whom?”

  The old woman gave a small shrug. “No one knows. Maybe the families of the missing girls. Political rivals, perhaps.”

  Matt rubbed his chin. Something about Zita’s story seemed familiar. He looked at Luiza, sitting quietly beside him. She watched him, her expression blank. Her understanding of Italian was rudimentary at best. She’d be lucky if she understood a third of the conversation. “What year did that happen?”

  Zita checked her notes. “July of 1628.”

  Matt typed the date and a few notes into the computer. Maybe Allan or Malcolm might make more of it. He stared at the screen, trying to think of any more questions. “Could I make a copy of your notes on the Barugnani Family? I promise I will give you credit in my book.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened, excited. “Oh! Of course you may. It’s just...I don’t have another copy to give out.”

  “That’s all right.” Matt spread the pages out and using Luiza’s tablet, photographed them one at a time. Allan’s going to love this. “Thank you, Zita . I promise I’ll give you credit for all your work.” Matt took her name and information. Once finished, he handed Luiza back her computer and gave the signal it was time to leave.

  They stood. Gianni swooped in from across the kitchen to help clean. Matt hadn’t paid the other hundred yet. Now Gianni was hovering about, making sure he was noticed.

  “It was good to meet you,” Zita said. “Maybe next time you are in Tuscany you can visit Marco’s castle.”

  Matt blinked, his mouth open. “Marco’s castle?”

  “In San Pettiro. Someone bought it a few years ago and has been restoring it. I think it will be a bed and breakfast once it’s complete.”

  “I’ll be sure to visit it,” Matt said, smiling broadly. Shouldering his satchel, he and Luiza made their way toward the door. He offered Gianni a folded hundred euro bill. “Thank you for your time.”

  The balding man snatched it with his index and middle fingers, curling it into his hand like a street magician performing a trick. “Be sure you credit my mother what she’s due.”

  “I will.” Matt stepped out into the street, quickly spotting Luc at the corner, phone still pressed to his ear. He and Luiza started toward the black knight as Gianni’s door closed behind them.

  “What was that about?” Luc asked, pocketing the phone.

  “Just a hunch,” Matt said. “Did you hear us?”

  Luc frowned. “Not very well.”

  “What did she say, Matt?” Luiza asked. “I heard Medici, murders, something about devil worship. I can’t believe you drank that coffee. What if that was poisoned?”

  “Then you or Luc would have been there to save me.”

  She shot him a cold stare. “That’s not funny. You walked into a house with that symbol on it and drank something a stranger gave you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matt said. “It was a risk.”

  Luiza shook her head and turned away.

  “So what did you find?” Luc asked.

  “I think I found our cult.”

  Luc and Luiza both looked at him.

  “Where?” Luiza asked.

  “San Pettiro. Find out where that is.” Matt drew
the phone from his pocket and speed dialed a number.

  Malcolm answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s Matt. Where are you?

  “A few minutes outside Pontedera,” Malcolm said, his voice confused.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Stop there and come back.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I found them.”

  “What? Where?”

  “San Pettiro.” Matt leaned to see the map screen in Luiza’s hand. “Hold that. You and Allan go back to Empoli. We’ll pick you up there and drive to San Pettiro.”

  “All right,” Malcolm said. “How do you know they’re there?”

  “I don’t.” Matt noticed San Gimignano, where the missing tour bus was last seen, was only a few miles away. “But I’ve got enough that we need to check it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They found Allan and Malcolm outside the Empoli train station. Malcolm wore a straw fedora and a tan long-sleeve shirt that covered his tattoos. He said it helped him blend in as a tourist. Matt thought the sleeves in the summer just made him stand out.

  Luc pulled into the drive. Malcolm nodded and tapped Allan, engrossed in his laptop, on the shoulder.

  Luc slowed to a stop as the two knights picked up their gear and hurried across the lot to the car. Clutching their instrument cases, Allan’s black and Malcolm’s worn and brown, they could have been in a band or maybe old-time mobsters with Malcolm’s hat and all.

  “Good timing,” Malcolm said, sliding into the back seat beside Matt. “We just got here.”

  Allan squeezed in after Malcolm.

  “You find anything on that info I got?” Matt asked.

  “Oddly, yeah,” Allan said, beaming. “Enough that I think you’re right.”

  “Well.” Luiza checked her map screen in the front seat. “We should be in San Pettiro in half an hour. What do you have?”

  Allan clicked his seatbelt as Luc pulled the car out and started back onto the road. “To start, there’s no record of a Marco Barugnani in any of the records.”

  “Not surprising,” Matt said. “Anya would have deleted it.”

  “Precisely,” Allan said, opening his laptop. “So I searched for other things that might link to him. Things she either couldn’t delete or wouldn’t have thought to look for. Specific years, other names, and that type of thing. One passage came up that I found particularly interesting.” He clicked the keyboard. “Sir Isidore Vidal wrote a note about a known cambion named Marco Barugnano who was an Italian lord, but also...” He grinned. “Tried to summon a black demonic goddess before the Order killed him and his demonic cult 1628.”