Duilio turned to speak, but stopped. A heavyset man in a dark suit stood in the entry through which they’d just come, looking as startled to see them as they were him. The infante’s ability to hide them must not extend in all directions, and the newcomer had come up behind them.
“Bastião, get him,” the infante said softly.
Bastião didn’t hesitate. Pistol in hand, the big guard pushed past Duilio and charged toward the man.
The man eyes went wide, and as he stumbled toward the outer door with Bastião in pursuit, he called out Iria’s name in panic. The woman had to have heard his warning.
“We’d better move,” Duilio said, searching for something in his pockets. “Our chance of surprise is gone. Raimundo, stay behind us.”
The infante stepped aside, apparently well schooled in taking orders for his protection. Duilio and Joaquim jogged to the end of the hallway. Joaquim peered around the corner, gestured for them to come ahead, and proceeded down the main hallway. The odd vibration ceased abruptly, startling in its sudden absence. Then another sound replaced it.
* * *
Oriana heard the sereia’s call—a female’s voice this time.
It had to be Maria Melo, reaching out to control them.
Mesmerized, the infante slowly turned and began walking that way. Joaquim had already disappeared around the corner. Duilio was the only one who hadn’t gone. He held his hands over his ears, the right one clutching his revolver against his head.
The song flowed over and past Oriana, not pitched to entice her ears, but Duilio started walking after the other two men, slowly, as if fighting every step. With the other sereia this close, he didn’t have much of a chance of defeating her call, even with his selkie blood and Oriana’s claim on him. None of the males would be able to escape.
Oriana weighed the odds. If she stayed behind Duilio, Mrs. Melo might not notice her in his shadow, not if she was focused on the men. So she kept directly behind Duilio’s slowly moving form, flicked open the cylinder of her gun, and dug a bullet out of her coat pocket. She hadn’t fired a gun in years. She wouldn’t do so unless she absolutely had to. The vibrations flared through her webbing and interfered with her senses. But she would do it if it meant bringing Maria Melo down.
Duilio walked on around the corner, his hands covering his ears, his footsteps slow and measured. Oriana shot a quick glance past him, but didn’t see Joaquim or the infante anywhere. They must have followed the sereia through one of the doors that led off on either side.
Duilio started moving faster as they approached the calling woman, heading directly toward an open door on their left. Keeping as close as she could, Oriana tried to set a bullet into the cylinder, but her hands trembled and it fell to the runner. She hissed in frustration, located a second bullet, slid it into the chamber, and clicked the cylinder closed. She held the gun with both hands, praying it wouldn’t have too much of a kick.
She pulled back the hammer as Duilio stepped over the threshold into a vast room. Maria Melo stood on the far side, a splash of darkness against a white wall, her head thrown back as she called. She’d pulled down the collar of her shirtwaist, and her gills vibrated visibly.
The infante stood before her, one hand reaching out to touch her face, trapped like a fly in amber by the strength of her call. Joaquim had almost reached her, but a man in a black coat stood next to him, grasping his arm. Oriana saw a knife in the man’s hands, thrusting toward Joaquim’s heart.
She stepped out from behind Duilio and fired. Vibrations from the recoil made the room spin about her, the reverberations in her webbing distorting her senses. Gasping, she dropped the gun, thrust her hands under her armpits, and fell to her knees.
Next to Joaquim, the man fell, too. He clutched his belly, his face wracked with pain. Oriana couldn’t hear him over the call of the sereia, but she saw him roll onto his back and hold up hands covered with blood. The sereia continued to sing, Duilio still walking toward her.
Oriana clenched her teeth to fight the dizziness. She was not going to lose them.
Softly she began a song of her own, calling them to herself. Tearing males away from another sereia’s grip was nigh impossible at this distance, but Joaquim stopped in his progress toward the woman. Duilio continued on toward her.
Why? Oriana gulped in another breath, mystified. She should have been able to reach Duilio more easily.
She changed her tone, hoping to reach him specifically, weaving his name into her wordless song, putting into it all her yearning for him. Joaquim turned away from her, but Duilio still ignored her summons. He walked on, by then only a foot or so away from Mrs. Melo.
The woman lowered her head to gaze disdainfully at him, the volume of her song decreasing with that motion. As if in a dream, Duilio lowered his left hand to hear her better, his right hand still clutching his revolver to his ear. The woman looked directly at Oriana and started sliding Duilio’s gun from his hand.
Oriana put every bit of desire she had into her song, begging him to return to her. Where had her own revolver gone? She couldn’t turn her head to look for it.
The gun slipped from Duilio’s fingers.
The sereia woman turned his revolver in her hand, pulled back the hammer, and . . .
His right hand still firmly over that ear, Duilio punched her in the throat with his left.
A sharp squeal from Mrs. Melo’s throat had them all clapping hands to their ears as she dropped the revolver to clutch at her neck with both hands. Her call was gone.
The infante shook himself and stepped back. Joaquim looked dazed, but quickly knelt down at the side of the man Oriana had shot.
Duilio reclaimed his revolver and turned back to Oriana. “Are you hurt?”
Oriana gaped at him. “Were you planning that all along?”
“More or less,” he admitted. “I couldn’t exactly tell you once she started up.”
Duilio could always count on people underestimating him. As Oriana walked to where her revolver lay on the carpet several feet away, she surveyed their surroundings. It was a huge room, the walls draped with sheets, all reeking of carbolic. There were no beds in the room, no furnishings at all. It was as sterile as that flat, converted into a surgery. What looked to be a hundred lights glowed in the candelabra, adding to the stark whiteness of the room. The smell of stale blood hung in the air, and a bundle of dark-stained fabrics was collected near the door of the room.
Oriana swallowed, her throat aching. How much of that blood was her uncle’s?
She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, fighting tears. She’d known they would be too late to help him. She’d known. And she was horrifyingly grateful it wasn’t her father’s blood there.
For a moment it seemed everything was frozen in ice about her, the world gone still. Duilio shot a concerned look at her where she stood in the middle of the room, unmoving. He took a step toward her.
Then Joaquim rose from where he’d crouched next to the moaning doctor. “Gut shot. He’s not going to make it.”
The infante lunged forward and grabbed Mrs. Melo’s arm, hauling her back to her feet. “Where is my brother?”
She hissed at him in response.
And the low vibration of a male sereia’s call began again, this time from the doorway behind them. Oriana spun about. A man leaned against the doorframe, wearing a fine nightshirt marked with spatters of blood. His overlong hair looked wild, and his dark eyes were unnaturally wide. He opened his mouth, apparently to speak, but all that came forth was the soundless call, sending irritation throughout all their senses. Then he collapsed onto the hard floor.
“I’ll kill him,” Mrs. Melo gasped out.
Oriana jerked back around to see the woman holding a knife to the infante’s side, the other hand twisted into the neck of his coat. The infante must have turned to look to the doorway like the rest of them, a
nd she’d taken advantage of his distraction.
Joaquim moved toward her.
“I’ll do it,” she rasped. “Don’t come any closer.”
Oriana lifted her revolver again. “You’re not going to hurt him. You have orders. What would your Spanish masters do to you if they found out you killed him?”
Mrs. Melo shoved the infante away and threw the knife at Oriana. Oriana deflected the flying blade with her arm, but her quarry ducked behind the draped sheets and disappeared. Hissing, Oriana pressed her hand over her arm. The knife had grazed her. She wasn’t certain how badly. It stung like a salt-wrapped burn.
She ran over, grabbed the sheet draping the wall, and pulled hard, sending it cascading down about her feet. A narrow door was concealed behind the fabric, set into a wall where plaster leaves chased along delicate vines. Oriana jerked the door open and gave chase.
* * *
Duilio ran after her. He had no idea where he was going. Oriana was ahead of him, and there weren’t any other doors leading off to either side. There was nowhere else for the Melo woman to have gone.
The hallway ended abruptly in another one of the damned spiral staircases. Oriana stood at the landing, leaning over the steps to look down into the center for her quarry. Duilio groaned. He’d hoped the new section of the palace would be free of this nonsensical architecture.
Up or down? Oriana gestured at him.
His lack of familiarity with this part of the palace meant he couldn’t guess, but his hearing was better than Oriana’s on land. Duilio listened, trying to determine which way she’d gone. He could hear a patter of feet above. Given how quickly Oriana tired while climbing, he figured Mrs. Melo’s lead would quickly shorten. Up, he gestured.
The staircase continued upward through the floors, and Duilio stopped at each one to peer into identical narrow hallways. He didn’t see her. At the highest point of the palace they came out of the stairwell into the fifth-floor hallway. Mrs. Melo was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to Oriana and spread his hands wide.
Breathing heavily, Oriana pointed to the door at the far end of the hallway. He guessed it would lead into a room that mirrored the one they’d left on the ground floor, but when he opened it, it only showed them four wooden walls, no larger than a closet, with a metal ladder leading upward. Duilio stepped inside and looked up . . . and saw stars in the night sky.
CHAPTER 34
Joaquim helped the infante maneuver the prince onto one of the torn-down sheets, preparing to carry the man somewhere safer. Across the room, Dr. Serpa had managed to prop himself against one of the sheet-covered walls, and held one hand pressed to his abdomen. His black suit hid the seep of blood, but his hands were red-stained, making Joaquim hope Serpa might simply bleed to death. Oriana had shot the man in his stomach. Almost no one survived that sort of injury. If the man didn’t bleed to death, the infection would kill him slowly, which might be more just.
Serpa’s eyes fixed on him. “I am going to be infamous,” he said in an educated accent with a hint of a Castilian lisp. “Like Castigliani. Doctors will speak of my work for centuries.”
“He’s talking about the doctor in that book, isn’t he?” the infante asked Joaquim, one hand pressed to his brother’s forehead. The prince moaned, but his eyes remained closed.
Joaquim nodded. He wasn’t going to satisfy Serpa by rising to his bait.
“There’s a house on Almada Street,” Serpa called toward them. He coughed and then said, “A girl is there. Tell the prince’s guards they can find her in the back. Her body and my notes should be taken to the medical college.”
Leaving the infante for a moment, Joaquim rose and went to stare down at the doctor. “Her name was Marta Duarte. Did you even know her name?”
“They’ll study her for years,” Serpa went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “The otter and the seal parts were only for show, so they shouldn’t judge our work by that. The throat, though—that was pure genius. With a healer to control the infection, anything can be replaced. I’ve laid the foundation for transplantation of hearts and lungs, hands and feet and eyes. Doctors may never speak my name because they pretend they don’t approve, but they’ll copy my methods.”
Joaquim felt his fists clenching. Surely the Medical-Surgical School wouldn’t condone such experiments.
“Oh, they will,” the doctor said, almost as if he’d spoken aloud. “Now they’ll be able to give anyone gills,” he rambled, the last few words beginning to slur. “I’ve made all the peoples equal.”
Joaquim turned away, jaw set. This man would have ripped out the throat of Marina Arenias just to prove his claims and never once considered the vibrant life he was cutting short. No one had that right, no matter how groundbreaking the results.
Eager to get away, Joaquim went to the door. He peered out and, at the crossing of the hallways, spotted three guards approaching. He checked his gun, but when they got closer, he saw that Bastião led them. A moment later the large guard knelt before the prince’s bloodied form.
“My God,” the guard said, crossing himself. “Is this what they were planning?”
The infante lifted his hand from his brother’s forehead. “Yes. A slow death, I’m afraid.”
The guard visibly collected himself and faced the infante. “The other guards were locked in the gymnasium, Your Highness, along with a dozen or so of the servants. They claimed they were enticed there with magic.”
“The sereia woman,” Joaquim supplied. “She must have called them.”
Bastião glanced up at him. “Yes. They’re moving out to secure the palace now, but I’ve warned them not to fire on strangers because of the investigators from the Special Police.”
“Good.” The infante rose and pointed toward the doctor. “Rodrigo, keep an eye on Serpa. I don’t care if he looks dead. I don’t want to take any chances.” One of the guards went to take a station by the doctor. “The rest of us can carry His Highness back to his rooms. We need to do it as gently as possible. Bastião, what did you do with the man you were chasing?”
Bastião rose. “I tied him up downstairs in the gymnasium, Your Highness. I left him in the chaplain’s charge.”
Mother of God! Drawing his gun, Joaquim ran for the stairwell.
* * *
Oriana climbed upward in Duilio’s wake, the metal rungs cold under her hands. When she reached the top of the access shaft, she took a deep breath and pushed herself up onto the roof, trusting that Duilio would have their quarry covered. As she expected, he stood a few feet from the ladder, gun trained on the woman.
Maria Melo stood at the edge of the rooftop, peering over a low wall into the darkness at the wooded park below. Lights illuminated the white merlons that ringed this section of rooftop, each as tall as a man. Oriana yanked on her skirt to free it from the shaft and got to her feet on the flat graveled area, catching Duilio’s eye.
Duilio settled his aim on the woman, and said, “Iria Serpa, you’re under arrest.”
That’s not going to work. Oriana knew the lengths to which this woman would go. Iria Serpa—or Maria Melo—wasn’t going to let herself be arrested. There was too great a chance she could be made to spill the truth eventually. No, the woman probably saw only two alternatives: escape or death. She’d retreated to the rooftop, though, which left her one option. Oriana tried to calm her breathing as she decided what to say.
Mrs. Melo glanced back over her shoulder. “It won’t help anyone if you take me in.”
“This is personal for you, isn’t it?” Oriana asked. “A vendetta against the prince that required he die in the worst way. Make him a sereia, the very thing he fears most.”
Mrs. Melo was intrigued. Oriana could see that in the smirk that lifted one corner of the woman’s lips. She had little illusion that the woman would confess the truth to her, but her reactions alone might provide some answers.
“S
o you found yourself at that prison,” Oriana said. “You met Serpa and his healer and insinuated yourself into their plans. You saw a way to get them to do your bidding. I’d bet they thought this was all about them and their dubious medical advancements. But you’re smarter than they are. They must have been so busy dreaming of being immortalized that they never once questioned why you were helping them.”
Mrs. Melo laughed. “Yes, his precious work. He wanted that girl preserved for posterity. I should have burned down the damned building.”
“But now the police are there,” Oriana told her, “collecting everything.” Duilio took a step toward the woman, but Oriana put out one hand to stop him. How long could she keep the woman talking? “They have to have evidence to take you to trial.”
“It would be a fair trial, of course,” Duilio added.
Maria Melo laughed harshly, her lip curling. “A fair trial? Twenty years ago, your precious prince executed my parents just for living here. Are you old enough to remember that? They were charged as spies. Did your police even try to determine if they were before condemning them? No, your prince just had them hanged.”
The acid in her tone made Oriana think she was hearing the truth. “And what did Felipa Reyna do to deserve your ire?” Oriana asked.
“The girl was in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing personal.” Mrs. Melo’s head turned as she glanced over the low wall behind her. “In this business, people die. I would have preferred to kill that interfering father of yours for his throat, but the Special Police let me down again.”
That had been the reason behind the arrest warrant then. The woman was still trying to eliminate the threat posed by Oriana’s family. Duilio stayed still, gun trained on the woman, as Oriana stepped forward. Her head was swimming. What else could she learn before the woman acted?
“Tell me, did you kill my mother?” she asked, curious to see if Mrs. Melo would even answer. “Or did someone do it for you when she figured out that you’re a Canary?”
Mrs. Melo laughed again. “You think you’re a priest to hear my confession? You think I’ll trade all my secrets to save my life? I’m not the fool you believe I am. I’ve always known the price. I know the rules of this game, far better than you do, girl.” She hummed a few notes . . . just enough of a call woven into them to distract Duilio. His gun lowered only an inch.
The Seat of Magic Page 35
