by Fiona Paul
It was Cristian.
He sat at an easel, his left hand awkwardly manipulating a paintbrush across a piece of canvas, seemingly unaware that Cass had regained consciousness.
The smoke, scalding heat, and chemical fumes must have distorted her perceptions. She had confused his face with Luca’s.
She swallowed back a sob. Luca hadn’t come to rescue her. He probably didn’t even know, or care, about her imprisonment. And Falco, had he died making sure Cass had gone through the workshop window first? She hadn’t heard him at all after she landed on the cobblestones. Her heart sank deep into her gut. One more person who had loved her and paid the price for it.
In addition to everything else, the book was gone—the only thing she had to prove Joseph Dubois and the Order of the Eternal Rose were evil had burned. She would never know for certain what role her parents had played in the secret society. Dubois would be free to recruit another scientist to continue the Order’s depraved research. He might have to start all over without the book, but that would not deter him for long.
No matter what has happened, you’ll be all right. Luca’s words were a mockery now. Cass could not get any further from “all right.”
No, she couldn’t think that way. She might not be able to destroy the Order completely, but without Piero or the book, they would at least be hindered. And she had fought off Cristian once before.
With Luca’s help.
Cass forced herself to imagine him trapped in the Doge’s dungeons—being strong, not succumbing to panic or despair. She would do the same. Slowly, she rolled each foot from side to side. She flexed her fingers, moved her wrists enough to realize she was not tied down in any way. She was sprawled on a divan, but it was lumpy and covered in dust.
She risked another peek at Cristian. And then at the opening that led back into his quarters. And then down at herself. Cass gasped in horror at what she was wearing: a beautiful bronze-colored dress with glittering metallic threads and a starched lace collar. It was her wedding gown. Somehow, Cristian must have gotten it from Signor Sesti, the tailor.
Cristian looked over at her when he heard her gasp, and smiled widely. His right hand twitched against his lap. “Signorina Cassandra,” he said. “Grazie a Dio. You’ll be much more fun to me alive.”
She sat up suddenly and had to grab the edge of the divan to keep from tumbling to the floor. Her head felt like it was stuffed with wet fabric, and her stomach lurched violently. “What have you done to me?” she asked, her voice strangely hoarse.
“I rescued you from the fire. Don’t you remember? You are probably still feeling the effects of the smoke.”
“Why?” Cass mentally berated herself for collapsing into a murderer’s arms. “Why would you rescue me?”
He twirled the paintbrush in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Would you rather I had left you there to die?”
Quite possibly. “I must confess I never saw you as the hero type.”
Cristian smiled. “But she will.”
Cass blinked rapidly and looked around. Her vision was still a little foggy, but she didn’t see anyone else in the room. Then she saw the white wrapped bundle on the floor, a shock of dark hair protruding from the top. She gasped again, swallowing back the rush of bile that flooded her throat. It was Mariabella. Cristian had retrieved her corpse from Liviana’s tomb.
“What have you done?” she asked. “Why would you—”
“I heard them say your blood is special,” Cristian said soberly. “They said your blood can fight death. Dubois promised I could have your remains when they finished with you, but I simply couldn’t wait any longer.”
“No,” Cass protested, her eyes looking everywhere but at the body. “They didn’t mean it like that.”
Cristian shook his head. “The spell says that any blood will work, but I figure yours will work the best. Perhaps with yours, my Mariabella will regain her former beauty.” He looked ruefully down at the corpse. “I’m afraid she’s not quite as lovely as I remember.”
Cristian was even more disturbed than Cass or Luca had imagined. Did he really think any spell could regrow the muscles and flesh on a decaying corpse? Against her will, Cass’s eyes flicked back to the bundle. They traced a sharp angle, the outline of Mariabella’s left arm, or what was left of it.
“What happened to everyone else from the workshop?” Cass’s voice dissolved on the last word, and she coughed forcefully. Clearly, the smoke had burned her throat.
Cristian shrugged. “I was going to ask the same thing. I came only for you. Did you get to watch them burn? Did Belladonna find the present I left for her before she perished?”
“She died trying to rescue the Book of the Eternal Rose.” Cass needed to keep Cristian talking until she could come up with a plan or an opportunity presented itself.
He smirked. “Nobles and their obsessions with earthly goods. Do you know Dubois paid me twice to steal that book?”
“Why is that?” she asked.
Cristian didn’t answer. He cocked his head to the side, and for a moment she felt like he was staring through her, at something else in the room that she couldn’t see. Something else that wasn’t there. “The fire . . . It was masterful,” he said. “Did you start it?” Without waiting for her response, he continued, “White-hot flames swallowing up the entire building. Felling the roof. Crumbling the stone. So beautiful. I heard your screams.” He glanced back at the canvas before returning his gaze to Cass. “They were like music, calling to me. I found you half buried in rubble.”
“Did you see anyone escape?” Cass pressed.
Cristian’s voice danced with excitement. “The fire brigade is probably still trying to put it out. No one could have survived.”
No. Cristian was wrong. Falco might have made it. He was capable and resilient.
Or she was wrong.
And Falco was dead.
Tears fell, one at a time, carving wet paths down her cheeks. If Falco was dead, it was because of her. Cass curled onto her side, her arms braced across her chest as if she were holding her heart inside of her.
“There’s no need to cry, Cassandra.” Cristian dabbed at the canvas. “And please stop changing positions. You are wrinkling your dress.”
“Why am I even wearing it?” Cass asked through her tears. “Is there a wedding I don’t know about?” She forced Falco from her mind. As she wiped her eyes with one of her lacy cuffs, her despair became rage. Rage became strength. Strength became focus.
“It’s the perfect outfit for your painting. And I thought you’d be eager to see how it fit,” Cristian said. “I read in your journal about how you had been measured for your wedding gown. It seemed a shame for it to go to waste, so I stopped by Signor Sesti’s shop and informed him I was a family member helping to handle your late aunt’s affairs.” Cristian added a few more brushstrokes to the canvas. “After all, we are practically family.”
“You’re insane,” Cass said. Without moving, she tensed and relaxed the muscles of her arms and legs, and then her feet and hands. Her head was starting to clear, but Cristian didn’t have to know that.
“What do you think my dear brother will say when he unwraps this portrait?” Cristian asked. “Will he realize that it was I who killed you, and not the fire, I wonder? I hope so.” He bent down and began mixing two colors of paint on his palette. “I just have to fix the fine details. Like the color of your lips. I had it all wrong.”
“Luca is dead. He drowned in his escape attempt.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why do you wish to hurt him so much?” Cass asked. “He never did anything to you.”
“I’m the eldest son.” Cristian gripped the paintbrush so tightly that it snapped in half, spatters of rose-colored paint falling to the ground. “He took my life.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I would have been eno
ugh to satisfy you. Unlike him. So weak.”
Cass shuddered at the idea of Cristian satisfying her in any way. She had seen his handiwork. Mariabella and Sophia, their vacant eyes, the circles of bruises around their necks, the Xs slashed across their hearts. And Mariabella he had even claimed to love. If you strangled and mutilated the woman you loved, what did you do to a woman you didn’t?
Be strong. Cass would get only one chance to escape. If that. “Even if Luca is alive somewhere,” Cass began, “he doesn’t love me anymore. Killing me won’t hurt him.”
“I think it will,” Cristian said. He tossed the broken paintbrush to the floor and selected a new one, dabbing gently at his palette. “Now be quiet. No more distractions. I want this to be perfect.” He looked back and forth from Cass to the canvas, muttering under his breath as he alternated between furious bursts of brushstrokes and frowning at the portrait.
She squeezed her eyes shut and then open. Rubbing her temples, she inhaled a long, slow breath. The rush of air aggravated her raw throat, and a spasm of coughing erupted from her lips. She clutched her chest with one hand and covered her mouth with the other.
Cristian’s lips tightened as he set his brush down on the easel. “It’s very difficult for me to work when you keep moving about like that.”
Cass hid a smile behind her palm. Cristian had just given her the idea she needed. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, squeezing out a couple more coughs. “My throat. It burns.” One more cough. “Is there any way I can have something to drink?”
“As soon as I’m finished with—”
Cass sucked in another breath, deep enough so that she didn’t have to fake the rasping, gagging sounds. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, after her coughing dissipated. “I can’t help it.”
“Fine.” Cristian backed away from his easel. “I’ll fetch some ale. But keep in mind how you’re dressed and how weak you are. If you try to run away, I’ll catch you. And when I do, I’ll make your death as slow and painful as possible. And I’ll hunt down my brother and deliver your mutilated corpse straight into his arms, a piece at a time.” Cristian’s eyes reflected the candlelight. “Would you enjoy that, inflicting pain upon him for months, even after your death?”
Cass answered with another barrage of coughing, but inside she continued to channel her anger. She would kill Cristian before she let him hurt Luca.
“I’ll be back,” Cristian muttered. He crossed the room, stepped through the opening, and pushed the bookcase in front of the passageway.
Cass got gently to her feet as soon as Cristian was safely out of sight. She held out a hand for balance as she stepped away from the divan. All of the candles on the candelabra were lit. By their light, she could see that Cristian was finishing the painting of her that had previously hung on the wall.
Glancing wistfully at the bookshelf that blocked her path to freedom, Cass knew Cristian was right about one thing—she wasn’t fast enough to outrun him. Could she use the same neck-squeezing move on him that she had used on the guard at Angelo de Gradi’s workshop? Perhaps, but her muscles still felt weak and quivery beneath her skin. Cristian might break her hold before she succeeded in rendering him unconscious. She needed a weapon. Her eyes skimmed across the chamber, everywhere but where the bundle of bones and rotting flesh that had once been Mariabella lay. The room looked mostly the same as she remembered, aside from the addition of the art supplies and a strange wide bowl sitting on top of Mariabella’s shrine. Cass peeked down into the bowl. It had the skull from Rosa’s shrine and the lock of hair from Sophia’s shrine. An ancient book was folded open before it.
It was the book Cass had stopped to read the last time she was here. The book about mixing bone, hair, and blood to create new life. Her stomach churned. Against her will, her eyes flicked over to the white-wrapped corpse. She wasn’t going to stay around long enough to let Cristian draw her blood for some spell that promised to raise the dead. She prayed, for everyone’s sake, that the enchantment wouldn’t work with anyone else’s blood either.
She heard footsteps from beyond the bookcase and started to panic. Cristian was returning, and she still hadn’t managed to find anything to defend herself with. She hurried back toward the divan, passing by the easel as she did. Perfect! Nestled among the collection of brushes was a shiny scalpel that artists sometimes used for detail work. She grabbed it, slid it up her sleeve, and then returned to her seat, adjusting the billowing fabric of her dress so that the scalpel was completely hidden from view.
Wood scraped against stone as the bookshelf slid back and Cristian’s form appeared in the wall’s opening. Quickly he stepped through, muttering under his breath, not even bothering to pull the bookcase back into place.
As Cass watched, Cristian poured from a pitcher of ale. The foamy liquid sloshed over the edge of the tankard he held in his trembling right hand. She coughed again, a muted bleating sound. “Thank you,” she said meekly, feeling anything but meek.
The scalpel blade was cool against her wrist. She just needed Cristian to come close enough for her to stab him. She would bury the point exactly where she had put pressure on the guard. If she severed a big vessel, he would lose too much blood to come after her. She didn’t even care if she killed him.
Cristian approached with the mug of ale. Cass’s heart battered against her rib cage. This was it, her one chance. She prayed he couldn’t see her trembling, that he couldn’t sense the whirling of her thoughts, the rushing of her blood beneath her skin. The cuff of her sleeve hung over her fingers. She maneuvered the scalpel into her palm, visualizing the arc of her arm through the air, imagining the feel of the blade cutting into Cristian’s flesh. The complex layer of smells—decay, rosewater, incense—tickled her throat as her senses sharpened. Her mouth went dry, her muscles tense.
The moment Cristian bent over to hand her the tankard, Cass jammed the scalpel into his neck. Blood spurted out. Roaring in pain, he dropped the mug of ale. His hand flailed toward his neck, reaching for the scalpel. A spattering of crimson rain sprayed across the front of her bodice as he yanked the blade from his throat. Cass pushed him backward and got to her feet, heading quickly for the opening that led back into his quarters. To her horror, she saw that he was stumbling after her, the bloody scalpel now clutched in his fist. She lurched through the opening in the wall, grabbed the fireplace poker from the corner of the adjoining room, and ran out into the corridor. Holding her breath, she pressed her body against the wall, listening as Cristian’s footsteps came closer.
A step.
A hot, angry breath.
Another step.
Cass sensed him in the doorway before she could see him. Stepping forward, she swung the poker with all her might. It slammed into his face with a brutal crunching sound, the impact jarring her all the way to her bare feet. Cristian flew backward, his body connecting sharply with the floor. Blood flowed from his neck and nose, painting the stones red.
Dropping the poker, Cass turned and hurried down the hallway, one hand clutching the wall for balance.
“I will kill you,” Cristian rasped from behind her, his words wet with blood. Mannaggia. Was there nothing that would incapacitate him? She clawed her way out the front door of Palazzo Viaro and nearly fell to her knees in the warm night. Stars shined down on her, lighting the pathway back to the Conjurer’s Bridge. Wind tickled the nape of her neck. Cass was so relieved to be out of Cristian’s lair that tears spilled hot from her eyes without warning.
She forced back a sob, wiping viciously at her damp eyes with one of her satin sleeves. She was still in danger. Safety first. Then tears.
The hazy moon illuminated streets that were bare except for trash heaps and the occasional rat, its metallic eyes glowing menacingly in the dark. Cass stumbled barefoot across the Conjurer’s Bridge, looking back once over her shoulder for Cristian. The door to Palazzo Viaro swung back and forth in the breeze, but Luc
a’s deranged half brother was nowhere to be found. She turned toward the center of town, the cobblestones digging into her feet with each labored step.
She needed to find Luca or Feliciana. She needed to know more about the fire. Had anyone survived?
Cass turned into an alley, and then turned again. She quickly became lost, but prayed she had gone far enough to where Cristian would not find her. Pausing in the doorway of a bakery, she wished she were wearing anything but her ridiculous wedding dress. The layers of fabric hung like sheets of lead. Even the sleeves were pulling her toward the ground. She gripped the wooden door frame, chips of paint flecking off beneath her fingers.
The curved façade of a small chapel down the block caught her eye. She would seek sanctuary there, just for a little while. In the calmness of the church, she could regain her strength and figure out what to do next.
San Zaccaria was a pale building of modest size, made of stone, with simple arched windows. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. Inside, a single candle flickered on the altar, illuminating empty pews and walls that were covered with frescoes. Cass lingered in the doorway for a moment until she felt certain she was alone. Then, she walked up the main aisle, toward the thick red candle that sat in an elaborate golden holder. Her eyes held fast to the flame as if she were staring at God himself.
She stood before the altar, her head bowed, her lips murmuring the Lord’s Prayer. She asked God to keep her safe, and to keep safe the people she loved. Those who had lived, anyway.
She prayed for Falco—that he wasn’t dead, that he had escaped somehow. Perhaps she had simply lost him in the smoke . . .
The flame of the red candle flickered as Cass prayed until her mouth was dry and her limbs were heavy. It had taken almost everything she had to escape from Cristian, but God had guided her to safety. Now, as the angels, disciples, and wise men in the frescoes looked down upon her, she sank to the floor in front of the altar.
“My child. What is it?”
