by Ilana Waters
I sighed. I didn’t see any way of getting out of taking Arthur and Philip around Rome. I had to act like I was one of them—a real PIA member.
“Well, all right,” I said. “Maybe just for the morning?” Philip looked like he wanted to throw me into a meat grinder.
“Splendid!” Arthur said. “I’ll go help Marcello with the maps, and see if he can’t rustle us up some breakfast. You two stay put.” Arthur went behind the counter and through the door in back.
“Thought you had it all worked out, didn’t you?” Philip said.
“Excuse me?” I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Thought you’d come here for a little vacation, fool people into thinking you’re working. What you’re really doing is sitting around on your . . . laurels . . . while others pick up the slack.”
“Ah yes,” I replied. Now I was trying not to smile. “You’re onto me.”
Philip didn’t catch the sarcasm. “Just as I suspected. Well, after our little sightseeing trip, you’d best be careful.” He took a step forward and stood almost nose to nose with me. “Because I’ll be watching you. One wrong move and . . .” He swiped his finger across his neck.
I raised my eyebrows. “You’ll send me to the guillotine? How very French Revolution of you. And here I thought the English and the French didn’t get along.”
Philip was just about to reply when Arthur and Marcello reemerged. “Good news,” Arthur called. “Marcello found the maps. And some sandwiches!” He threw us pieces of soggy-looking bread wrapped in plastic. “Let’s go, lads! I can’t wait to get that Roman air into my lungs.”
“If you like air filled with smog,” muttered Philip.
“Take care, Marcello.” Arthur waved to him as we walked towards the door. “See you when we get back.”
“Have a nice time on your mini-vacation, i miei amici!” Marcello called. Philip gave me one last glare and followed Arthur out the door. When I was certain Marcello wasn’t looking, I glamoured a pig’s tail onto Philip’s rear end, then just as quickly removed it. It felt good to do some magic behind Philip’s back—literally. And I should have left it there. It suited him.
After choking down our soggy sandwiches, which Arthur didn’t seem to mind, we toured a few ancient relics. I really wanted to get back to my investigation, but Arthur seemed content to drag us from one tourist attraction to another, explaining things as he went.
“And here is the Arch of Constantine,” he said, “built to—”
“Commemorate Constantine I’s victory over Maxentius at the Battle of Milvian Bridge in 312,” I finished. I hated to interrupt, but I’d do anything to speed things along.
Arthur stopped, and he and Philip looked at me. “Yes, but . . . how did you know that?” he asked. “Oh—you’ve been at the guidebooks, haven’t you?” He tapped the side of his head. “Smart lad.”
“Ah, yes. Guidebooks.” I nodded. “That’s it exactly.”
“Well, I admire your diligence, son,” Arthur said. “You’ve done your research.”
“Trust me,” Philip said, “there are a great many things in Rome you can’t learn from guidebooks. You need firsthand accounts.” He pulled on the lapels of his blazer and smirked at me.
Yes, like those from a father who’s an ancient Roman.
“Luckily,” he continued, “there are those of us who are always watching, always waiting. As soon as something happens . . . BAM!” He slapped his hands together inches from my face, causing me to jump back a little. “You’d better believe we’ll be there to record it.” He gave me a dead-eye stare, which I returned in kind.
Arthur was barely paying attention. “Yes, yes—come, lads,” he said. “I want to see the Circus Maximus. ‘Once a Roman racetrack, it’s now a public park popular with sun-worshippers,’ ” he read from a brochure.
I broke from Philip’s stare and shrugged at Arthur. “The sun is nothing to worship,” I said. “Just an enormous ball of hot gas burning millions of miles away.” Rather what my father would look like if we shot him into space.
“Actually, numerous ancient cultures worshipped the sun, and some modern ones still do,” Philip said, still glaring. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“Of course I knew that,” I said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. I couldn’t wait for the morning to end.
***
I updated my father on the situation by phone that evening, which went even worse than I feared.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” Titus said. I could hear static on the line. I wondered if the desert winds weren’t causing problems with the phones again, as they so often did in Nevada. “Two PIA members have essentially followed you to Rome—”
“Well, not followed me, exactly,” I said.
“Right,” replied Titus. “Followed an anonymous tip likely given by Lord Ashdown, and now they are at the PIA’s Roman branch. One of them is an expert on—of all things—me, and the other seems hell-bent on exposing you for something. Anything.”
I rubbed my forehead. “That about sums it up,” I said. “And one of them isn’t too happy I’m staying at the Hassler, the jealous little twit.”
“Will you forget about your petty rivalries?” Titus barked. “We have much larger concerns at the moment. Really, Joshua—I don’t think you could have made a bigger mess out of things if you tried.”
“Yes, Father, that’s what I’m trying to do. Make as big a mess of things as possible.” I attempted to calm myself by looking out the window of the hotel and counting passing cars. There were quite a few nice ones—it’s no secret that Italians love their automobiles. Little wonder that some of the most expensive cars in the world got their start in Italy: the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, the Maserati. My father would certainly love to see all the latest models. Or perhaps he already owned a few—the man did have a garage full of sports cars.
“All I’m saying,” Titus continued, “is that one would think you could . . . andle . . . imple . . . vestigation . . .”
“What’s wrong with your phone?” I asked. I tapped the side of mine, but all I heard were crackling noises. “You’re breaking up. And you sound hollow, like you’re far away.”
“Look out your hotel room window again,” my father said, his voice clearer this time. “Down at the sidewalk.”
A deep feeling of dread filled my stomach as I drew back the curtain and saw Titus Aurelius standing twenty feet below me.
Chapter 13
For a few seconds, I leaned my head against the glass window, with my mouth hanging open. Then I forced myself to go down to Titus.
“You already knew about Arthur and Philip!” I said as soon as I stepped outside. “About them coming to Rome. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
Titus took a lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigarette dangling from his mouth. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen him smoke. “Is that any way to greet your father?” he asked. “And of course I knew. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since you were at the PIA’s London branch.”
“You were spying on the spy?” I said in disbelief. “How’d you even do that?” But I knew better than to expect an answer. There are a hundred ways witches can look through mirrors, computer monitors, and all sorts of other devices over a distance. “Never mind,” I said. “Don’t you have stacks of cash to count? Or at least mustard seeds to arrange before dawn?”
My father glowered at me and blew a puff of smoke out his mouth. “I have assistants to do those sorts of thing for me,” he said. “Besides, I thought I might help in your investigation.”
“Why?” I asked. “I’m here to do the things you are unable to in daylight. And won’t your precious casino shrivel up and die in the Nevada heat? Whatever will it do without you there to feed and water it?”
Titus heaved a sigh. “I’ve left it in the hands of some very capable associates. Clearly, my efforts are better expended here, where people are far less com
petent.” He looked me up and down. “The Council—and now members of the PIA—are essentially trailing you. It’s time I stepped in.”
I shook my head. “You’re completely overreacting. I have everything under control.”
“So you’re closer to finding the crystal than you were before?” he asked, taking a drag on the cigarette.
Fitting he would mention the crystal first and not Abigail. I hated to think of it, but why would Father be so keen on finding her anyway? As far as I could see, all they ever did was argue. What if the Council’s hints were true? That he saw her only as a means to an end, the way he did so many others?
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve . . . I’ve decided the investigation needs to go in a new direction.” Like towards a despotic two-thousand-year-old vampire—who for once is not my father.
“All the more reason you need my help,” Titus replied. “It’s a good thing I came to Rome when I did. Though I must admit it’s not . . .” He paused and continued smoking, then looked around him as if seeing a different planet. “It’s not quite what I expected.”
I hung my head, then picked it back up. I could no more convince my father to return to Las Vegas than I could stop the sun from rising tomorrow. “Well, in that case,” I spread out my arms, “welcome home, Father.”
The look on Titus’s face said he felt anything but welcome. For the first time, I glanced at his hand—the one not holding the cigarette. It was empty.
“Where’s your suitcase?” I asked suspiciously.
“Already inside with a bellboy.” Titus took a last drag on the cigarette, then dropped it on the sidewalk and ground it under his heel. He smiled at me. “You spoke so highly of the Hassler, I thought I’d join you here.”
I nearly choked on the lingering tobacco fumes. My father went on about how he’d already booked the penthouse suite. Typical. I supposed I should be grateful he hadn’t asked to room with me.
After Titus settled in, we met in his room to discuss strategy. Obviously, he couldn’t approach the PIA directly the same way I had. That path was fraught with peril for me as it was. But there was the possibility he could help in another way—one related to his old friend, Callix Ferox.
“I’ve run out of avenues as far as researching the crystal,” I said. I was seated on one of the many couches in his suite, gazing out windows that overlooked practically all of Rome. “But I think that finding Callix Ferox’s tomb,” I continued, “or whatever it’s called, might be the next best thing. If whoever took Abigail wanted the crystal for Ferox, they’d have to be close by. I was hoping you might provide some insight about the situation.”
“Me?” Titus was standing by the windows, staring out them the same as me. His eyes were scanning the lights and rooftops of the city; he’d barely registered what I said.
“Yes, you,” I repeated, louder this time. “Do you happen to know Ferox’s old stomping grounds? Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Perhaps,” my father said, rubbing his chin. “Though it might hard to tell with all these other inane buildings on top of them. Besides, just because Ferox frequented certain places doesn’t mean the witches of old buried him there. But I suppose we could start with the Pantheon. He’d often go there to pay homage to the gods, the lying hypocrite.”
“Do you think you’d be able to—I don’t know—sense his presence or something?” I asked. “Using your vampire powers, or your witch magic?”
“I make no promises, but it’s worth a try, as the modern saying goes,” Titus replied, glancing around the room. “We’ll start tomorrow night.”
“Fine. See you then.” I got off the couch and went back to my own room. I didn’t even know if Titus realized I’d left. I heaved a sigh. Maybe if I curled up and died, this would all just go away.
***
After finishing up at the PIA the next evening, I walked to the restaurant where my father and I had agreed to meet. Italians have dinner quite late by American standards, which meant I could dine with my father. You can only imagine my joy.
“Why are you still in that ridiculous outfit?” Titus asked when he saw me. “When are you changing back into your normal clothing?”
I suppose I should’ve been offended. Aside from the waistcoat, glasses, and polished shoes, this was my normal clothing.
“I can’t. This is my disguise for the PIA,” I explained, removing the glasses at least. “I still technically have a job there, you know.”
“Disguise.” My father shook his head. “Do at least try to blend in with the Italians, Joshua. They are stylish in their dress, after all.”
“I have my own sense of style,” I replied as we walked into the restaurant.
“Disheveled is not a fashion statement,” he said. “You’re a Roman, son. Always remember that. You have a lot to be proud of.”
“Ah yes,” I remarked. “Plundering, fascism, persecution of Christians . . .” I tapped my foot as we waited for our seats. But what Titus said was true: clothing is important in Italy, at least in the cities. The maître d’ had already noticed how well dressed Titus was, compared to me, and adjusted the caliber of his smile accordingly. I suppose even in the best of times, I was always a little rumpled.
We sat down at the table and ordered our food. As for my father’s true dietary needs, I could tell they’d already been met the instant I saw his face. His complexion was distinctly ruddier, closer to a mortal’s. Vampires his age usually feed every few days, and sometimes even less frequently than that. It was a part of him that disgusted and fascinated me. I often wondered what it would be like to become a vampire. The craving for blood, the hypnotic power over mortals. The thoughts made me feel deliciously alive, yet shudder at the same time.
Regardless of my feelings on the matter, it was a part of my father I had to accept. It helped to remind myself that being a vampire was not my father’s choice; it was something forced on him, although he refused to discuss the experience in depth. He kept the feeding mostly out of my sight, but every once in a while, I think he brought it up just to needle me. I believe he usually killed criminals, but I doubt this was out of any sense of morality or justice. Members of the underworld were simply easier to dispatch, and there was less likelihood of anyone coming to look for them. For Titus, feeding was about convenience, not compassion.
After our meal—that is, my meal—we left the restaurant and started towards the Pantheon. No sooner had my father stepped onto the cobblestone street than his vampire reflexes barely prevented him from being run over by a Vespa.
“Bloody idiot,” he shouted, shaking his fist and narrowing his eyes at the Vespa as it zoomed down the block. I really hoped he wasn’t placing a hex on it.
A few children were kicking around a soccer ball several doors down; one struck it so that it nearly landed at my feet. I bumped it up with my foot, then made it spin around on my finger and grinned at the kids. They laughed and clapped their hands when I kicked it back to them. Titus glared at the children. Instantly, they stopped smiling, then turned and fled along with their ball.
“Really, Joshua,” Titus said, turning to me. “You ought to be more careful.”
“What? Spinning the ball?” I shrugged. “It’s nothing that a mortal basketball player couldn’t have done.” We started walking down the street in the direction of the Pantheon.
“You never know,” Titus said. “You don’t want to give mortals a reason to remember your face—what on earth are you doing now?”
I confess, dear reader, I had stopped to pet a stray tabby that was sitting on a stoop. You will often find such cats in Rome, usually cared for by elderly women. Still, there are far too many felines who never get enough to eat, or adequate shelter.
“You’re so softhearted, you’re practically a woman,” Titus grumbled. “Look around for a taxi stand, will you?”
I didn’t counter that being softhearted had nothing to do with gender. But I did notice that Titus
reached down and petted the animal when he thought I wasn’t looking. All cats are sacred to witches, after all.
There were no taxi stands in the immediate vicinity, and unlike most cities, you can’t simply hail a taxi in Rome. The weather wasn’t bad, so we decided to walk. Tourists kept thinking I was a local and asking me for directions. This had been a common occurrence since I arrived. Perhaps it was my dark hair (a stereotype often foisted on Italians), or perhaps they sensed something about my ancestry. Regardless, I felt it my duty to put them on the right path, which is easy to do when one has studied a city all one’s life.
“Joshua, will you please stop being so helpful?” my father asked after a Swedish couple thanked me profusely for pointing them towards their hotel. “We have work to do.”“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”
“Get a new nature,” Titus snapped. “We don’t have time to waste.”
I turned to him and folded my arms. “Then why did it take you so long to come to Rome in the first place?” I demanded. “You didn’t seem concerned about wasting time before.”
“My reasons are my own,” Titus said. “And I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you. Now, let’s get going.”
We walked in silence to the Pantheon. It was closed at that hour, but it didn’t matter. It was enough for my father to stand outside it and try to sense Ferox’s presence. I stared up at the towering structure, the front of which was a marble triangle supported by eight Corinthian columns. Meanwhile, my father closed his eyes and breathed deeply in and out. I waited.
“Anything?” I finally asked.
Titus opened his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing.”
“All right, then,” I said, disappointed. “Let’s move on.”
And so we did. We went to the Temple of Hadrian, the Mausoleum of Augustus, the Coliseum, Palatine Hill. We visited monuments, triumphal arches, and ancient ruins. Finally, when we came to the Fountain of the Four Rivers, I’d just about had enough. My feet were aching from walking all over the city, and we had no better a sense of where Ferox was than when we started.
