The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  Winter stared at her. She held her aim with the same unflinching poise he remembered from the hotel room.

  Cesare gave a flicker of a smile, more out of reflex than amusement. It didn’t linger.

  ‘You don’t possess such a bullet.’

  Libby’s gaze was resolute, hard as glass. ‘You think there’s only one of them out there? I saw the map Franzeri made. I know where the thorns are located. All of them. And so does British Intelligence. Trust me, mate, there’s another bullet. And this one isn’t for your father.’

  Winter’s eyes moved from the gun to her face. There was no crack in her composure, no giveaway shift of muscle beneath the skin, no trace of sweat. If this was a bluff she was utterly committed to it.

  Libby allowed him a fleeting sideways glance as she kept the gun steady. ‘I didn’t come to Naples for you, Mr Winter. You were just a complication. He’s the reason I’m here. That’s my assignment, see? Infiltrate his business. Work out what he’s up to. Put this bullet in him. So no, I couldn’t exactly give you my bloody gun, now could I?’

  Winter knew she had already fired the gun. That shot by the tunnel entrance. Had she reloaded without him seeing?

  Cesare’s men took aim at her. Once more he coolly waved the weapons down.

  ‘Relax. She’s lying. I know she’s lying.’

  Libby raised her chin, baiting him. ‘Go on then, little prince. Gamble it. Because I’m not backing down.’

  Cesare took a step, no more, toward her. ‘Say you put this bullet in me. This make-believe bullet. What then? The pair of you will be dead in seconds. My men won’t let you leave this chamber alive.’

  ‘It’s a make-believe bullet, you prick. What do you care?’

  With her free hand Libby reached inside her jacket, extricating the photos she had shown Winter in his room. She pressed the stack of surveillance shots into his palm, keeping her eyes fixed on Cesare.

  ‘Get out of here. And get these to London.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Winter. The glossy prints were sticky against his flesh. It felt like he was already holding her death sentence.

  ‘Go,’ Libby insisted, the word escaping between her teeth, hot and urgent.

  ‘Give me the gun, Cracknell. You get yourself out of here. And take these pictures with you.’

  She shook her head, still targeting Cesare’s heart. ‘This is my mission, not yours. So shut up and for God’s sake go.’

  ‘Give me the gun!’

  ‘You’ve already wasted one of these bullets, Mr Winter. Don’t waste another. Go. Go now. Make this count.’

  She had the bullet. Winter was so nearly certain of it. He took a step away from her, and then another, hating what he had to do. As he pocketed the prints he turned and saw Cesare spread his arms, as if mocking the pose of San Gennaro. There was absolute confidence in his stance.

  ‘Take that shot, then,’ taunted Cesare. ‘Take it with your make-believe bullet.’

  He nodded to one of his men, who aimed his revolver at Winter. There was the snap of a safety catch being disengaged.

  ‘Take it now, girl. Before I instruct Giancarlo to shoot the Englishman in the head.’

  Winter stopped moving.

  Cesare took another step forward, determined to break Libby’s resolve. His shirt strained across his chest as he extended his arms in sacrificial fashion. He was offering his heart as a target, daring her to fire.

  Another step, closer still.

  ‘Are you lying to me, piccolina? Or just too gutless to shoot?’

  Libby faced him, expressionless.

  He advanced on her again, placing a patent leather shoe in the dust. This time Libby pulled the trigger. The force of the shot sent Cesare reeling. He stumbled, fighting for balance, body buckling at the impact. There was a sudden surge of blood on his shirt. He threw his arms across his ribs, the fists tightening as if clasping the pain.

  Winter’s eyes flashed to the man with the gun on him. He was staring at his leader, unsure of what he had just witnessed.

  Winter looked back at Libby. There was a tremble in her gun hand now but her face remained hard.

  Slowly Cesare gathered himself. He gave a smile like smashed glass as he raised his head from his chest. A bullethole had burnt his suit, precisely above his heart. A tiny curl of smoke drifted from the blackened fabric.

  ‘Oh, you crazy girl,’ he said, straightening up. ‘I almost believed you.’

  He closed the gap between them and ripped the gun from her hand. Then he walked away, weighing the weapon. ‘Yes, Webley and Scott. A classic.’

  He turned and shot her in the heart.

  27

  It was a terribly ordinary bullet that tore through Libby Cracknell.

  Nothing sacred, nothing magical, nothing in the least bit remarkable. Just a plain lump of lead, jacketed in copper, shipped from a Royal Ordnance Factory in a box of a thousand, perfectly matching. For all that a single bullet could steal a life or spark a war or tilt history on its axis they tended to be dull, practical things. And this one, in this moment, was no exception.

  The bullet carved through Libby’s chest. Its punch was enough to knock her from her feet, slamming her body backwards. Blood sprayed from the exit wound in a bright, insistent arc. As the cartridge escaped her it struck the cavern wall with a screech of copper on rock.

  Winter ran to her as she collapsed.

  Cesare threw the gun to the ground, clearly having no further use for the thing. He regarded her fallen body, lying among the bones. ‘Consider that a tip, little waitress.’

  Winter crouched by Libby, hearing her raw, shuddering breaths as her lungs struggled for air. There was blood in her mouth and it streamed between her teeth. Her eyes were fixed on his, the pupils huge and intense, fighting for a connection.

  ‘Keep looking at me,’ he urged her. ‘Don’t look away.’

  He threw her jacket open. The wound had drenched her blouse, spreading in a tacky, darkening smear from her ribs to her collarbone. Winter ripped the material, exposing scorched flesh that was already blistering. He peered at the point of entry, attempting to gauge the angle of the bullet and just what damage had been done.

  She had taken a direct hit to the heart. If the bullet had severed the aorta then she had only minutes. If it had punctured the left ventricle then her chances were marginally higher, but he knew only immediate medical attention could hope to arrest fatal blood loss, and that was impossible, given where they were.

  He pushed back his rage, determined to stay cold, to keep focused. The hole in her chest was relatively small, no bigger than a halfpenny. If the point of exit was any larger then blood could rush into the pericardium, the membrane surrounding the heart. If that occurred then the flood of liquid would throttle her heart’s ability to fill and pump. He had watched a colleague die that way in Kashmir, claimed by a Red Chinese sniper. It was an excruciating way to go, a fist closing inexorably around your life.

  He took his eyes from the wound and looked into her face again. ‘I’m with you, Cracknell. I’m right here.’

  Her eyes remained locked on him but there was a dry, brittle wrenching in her throat. It sounded like words cracking apart before they even had a chance to be spoken.

  Another memory. This one came to him like a stutter-flash of nightmare. He saw his wife, Joyce, lying on the tiles of their bathroom floor, a bullet in her chest. She was staring up at him with eyes as empty as glass. It was an image he knew well, and one he always fought to suppress, to stamp down, because the pain of it was so huge it would simply consume him. But he could never bury it. It was in the dreams that always tore him awake.

  He had lost Joyce that day. He had seen her die and he had been helpless.

  ‘Keep looking at me,’ he told Libby once again. ‘Breathe in and breathe out. Slowly now. That’s it. We’ll get you the help you need.’

  He was lying to her. She was going to die, just like Joyce. It was inevitable.

  Win
ter became aware that Cesare was pacing behind him, kicking his shoes through the dust, impatient for attention.

  ‘Leave her be, Englishman. Or are you giving her the last rites?’

  There was a murmur of amusement from the men that ringed the chamber.

  ‘Come on, what is she to you? A crazy child. Let her die. Turn and face me.’

  Winter half heard the provocation. He could summon a shadow scythe, he told himself. Take power from the bones around him, fuel the magic, unleash it on these men, on Cesare. Let that black, unholy thing have its way. Part of him craved that, craved the rush that would inevitably speed through his veins.

  But Libby was still alive, still breathing, still here in front of him. He couldn’t take a chance on what that thing might do to her, even in her final moments.

  Could he save her with magic, as Alessandra had saved him? In that moment it felt impossible. Where in God’s name did he even begin?

  He forced himself to break eye contact. And then he got to his feet and turned to confront Cesare.

  If he was going to die it wouldn’t be as a magician.

  Winter reached into his jacket pocket. The knuckle-duster was there. He slid his fingers through the rings and made a fist, feeling the cool weight of brass, tight against his skin. It was barely an advantage. But it was all that he had.

  ‘You’re going to fight me with that?’ asked Cesare, incredulous. ‘Maybe I should shoot you too, spare us both the embarrassment.’

  Winter moved on him, his stride determined, building all the momentum he could in the meagre space between them. He swung at Cesare’s face. For an opening punch it was sloppy and impulsive and Cesare easily evaded it.

  A fist smashed in retort against Winter’s left cheek, glancing against his eye. Cesare’s salamander ring ripped the skin, vicious as a baiting hook. It drew the first blood.

  Winter took a step back, shaking the blow from his head. Seconds later he traded a sharp, taut punch in return, carving upwards. This time the slab of brass connected with Cesare’s jaw, striking bone. The impact of the punch rang through Winter’s arm. It felt good.

  One of the men watching raised a revolver. He looked to his leader, wondering if he should simply put a bullet in the Englishman. Cesare waved him down. Clearly this was a fight he meant to finish.

  The pair circled each other in the dust, arms raised, shielding their faces. They exchanged a volley of punches, blocking each other’s fists as fast as they were thrown. Then they broke apart again, returning to their wary shuffle among the rubble and bones.

  Winter’s left eye was wet with blood. The vision on that side had begun to blur, halving his perception. If he closed his other eye he knew the outline of Cesare would swim in a red haze. He tried to blink the blood away, not daring to put a hand to the eye and give his opponent even the briefest moment of advantage.

  The girl was dying. This preening shit had shot her and smiled.

  He threw a sudden, impetuous punch, as much a surprise to him as it was to Cesare. This one found its target, straight across the mouth. Winter heard the brass scrape against the teeth.

  Cesare backed away, buying some space. He lowered his head until his eyes sunk beneath his brow. They regarded Winter, dark and thirsting, fixed on the blood that was dripping from the wound above his eye.

  The vampire’s lips parted. The flesh peeled away from the teeth, curling in a feral snarl, a sheen of saliva trailing on the enamel. Winter saw the brace of canines descend, locking into place. They hung above the tongue as the mouth gaped.

  Cesare opened his fists. He raised his hands, displaying the fingers. The nails extended, keen as claws, sliding from the skin as if unsheathed.

  ‘This is why your kind will never be more than prey.’

  He lunged at Winter. The nails sliced the air, ready to shred flesh.

  Winter met the attack with another jab to the teeth. This one sent Cesare staggering. For an instant he was off-balance, fighting to stay on his feet. His men edged aside as he stumbled back, not sure if they should intervene.

  Winter pressed his advantage. Again he targeted the mouth. He put every scrap of his hate into the punch, and the next punch too, and the one that followed. All the fury and frustration he had tried to suppress, just to keep his head level. Now it consumed him, and he let it. His rage was an energy and it impelled his fist into Cesare’s mouth, over and over.

  Winter heard the teeth crack as he slammed the brass. He punched again. This time they shattered.

  Stunned by the succession of blows, Cesare lost his footing. He tumbled to the ground, landing in a graceless sprawl among the bones. When he lifted his face there was a riot of blood on his lips.

  Winter stood over him, his chest shuddering as he tried to steady his breathing. ‘Get up,’ he demanded.‘Get on your feet and let’s finish this.’

  Eyes burning with humiliation, Cesare heaved himself onto his elbows. He spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth. All that was left between his lips were ragged white shards. The canines were barely more than splinters now, studding the gums like chips of porcelain.

  ‘You’re already finished, Englishman…’

  He gave an emphatic nod. The man to Winter’s left levelled a black Beretta, taking aim.

  Winter stared at the gun, at the blank gape of the barrel. The bullet was imminent.

  He realised his last thought in this world would be of Libby Cracknell. He saw her smiling in the London sun, rocketing that MGB through the dawn streets. No more than a moment, like all of them.

  The shot didn’t come. The man holding the Beretta shifted his gaze. He had focused on something just over Winter’s shoulder, at the entrance to the sepulchre. Cesare had seen it too, and whatever it was had shaken him.

  There was a new presence in the ancient chamber. Winter could tell it was there even though his back was turned. He sensed it in his skin, in the sudden ant-crawl of the flesh above his collar. A change had occurred in the air. Something with an aura even colder than rock and bone had arrived. Something just as old. It was a presence Winter had already encountered, only hours before.

  He turned, knowing exactly who he would see.

  Don Zerbinati stood among the rubble, alone and immaculate in a dark grey suit, the blaze of a lamp catching a golden tiepin. His expression was impassive, his eyes intense. There was a simple hessian sack in his hand, tied with a drawstring knot. Whatever it contained strained against the sides. As the sack slowly revolved the shape of the object revealed itself. It took Winter a moment to realise it was the outline of a human head.

  Another saint, no doubt, part of that grim collection displayed at the villa.

  The vampire king’s arrival had a visible effect on the men of the Shadowless. Their body language altered as he strode between them. They edged back, watching him pass, wary and respectful. Whatever deference they had shown to Cesare was now transferred to his father. Don Zerbinati didn’t simply command their respect. He seemed to take it by divine right.

  His eyes were on his son alone. ‘I always knew you had ambition. I never imagined it would be quite so brazen. Here, of all places. How dare you.’

  Cesare gathered himself, wiping the blood from the wreck of his mouth. ‘Father…’

  ‘We have so little that is sacred to us, Cesare. There are no churches for our kind. No crosses. This shrine is the only mercy we have ever been shown.’

  He gestured to one of the sandstone hollows. It held a skeleton, the hunched bones ornamented with gold. The stone mask above it had a woman’s face, the features thin and regal.

  ‘Your own mother found an ending here. And you choose to defile it?’

  Cesare was on his feet now. ‘I’m defiling nothing. I’m taking what’s mine.’

  ‘I have given you so much.’

  If there had been any hint of contrition on Cesare’s face it was gone now. ‘This shrine is my birthright. When you sealed it away from the world you sealed it away from me. I call that a disin
heritance, Father. And an insult to your own blood.’

  Don Zerbinati regarded his son with disdain. ‘You are an insult to the blood of kings, to my dynasty, to the house of Zerbinati. This is my city. It will always be my city. I’m amazed you think it can keep secrets from me.’

  He acknowledged Winter for the first time since stepping into the sepulchre. It was the briefest glance, enough to make Winter feel he was an incidental detail in this confrontation.

  ‘You paid this man to kill me.’ Zerbinati’s voice was cool and even. It was more a statement than an accusation.

  Cesare shook his head and gave a quick, viperish smile. ‘He’s nothing to do with me. It’s the British who want you dead.’

  ‘No, it’s you who wants me dead, Cesare. You and the Glorious, together. I know every detail. The bullet. The contract. The plan you have for these bones, for the legacy of our people. How you wish to pervert our species. The demon children you dream of.’

  ‘All I want are the bones. I would never want you dead, Father. Why would you believe that?’

  Winter lost patience simply standing there. ‘Bullshit. You made the payment. One million pounds. The evidence is right here.’

  He pulled the stack of prints from his pocket and offered them to Zerbinati. ‘It’s nothing to do with British Intelligence. This is the proof you need.’

  Zerbinati dismissed the photographs. ‘You think I don’t have proof? That I would make this claim against my son without evidence? Without a witness?’

  He lifted the hessian sack and pulled apart the drawstring knot. Then he reached inside and removed its contents.

  There was a head in his hand, held by a fistful of black hair. But it wasn’t a relic. It didn’t belong to some long-dead medieval saint. It was the head of Salvatore, the one Winter had severed with the shadow scythe in the passage beneath the villa. And it was still animated with unholy life, just as he had left it on the tunnel floor. The shearing wound had sealed itself into an angry pulp of sundered flesh and congealed blood.

  Salvatore’s eyes fixed on Winter, alive with hate. His mouth opened but the click of saliva was the only sound it could summon.