The Chamber of Ten hc-3

by Christopher Golden

  “I never imagined that they had leached enough of the magic from Akylis’ essence to keep themselves alive for this long, but perhaps the three of them worked together to reinforce what they had absorbed and what they had learned of magic. But now that they are back in Venice, they are already tapping into that evil repository beneath the city. They will sap all of the magic from it that they can. By killing Caravello though, we have bought ourselves some time.”

  Geena leaned back in her chair. “Time to do what? I mean, what is it that they’re planning?”

  “They will throw the city government into disarray, try to reclaim their old family properties—those still standing—and set old schemes in motion. The murder of the Mayor is a part of that, making the city council argue amongst themselves over who is really in charge of Venice. The destruction of that building in Dorsoduro incites chaos, draws the eyes of the city’s authorities away from whatever else they might be doing in the shadows. There will be other assassinations. Already they will be moving lackeys and pawns into positions of influence.”

  “But what about the tombs of their relatives? Why would they expose the resting places of so many members of their family?” Geena asked.

  “Perhaps simply to give the city something else to focus on, another distraction. Perhaps because they don’t want their dead to be forgotten.”

  Something didn’t sound right to Geena. “So they’re just starting from scratch?” she said. “If what they wanted was to spread their influence across the Mediterranean, how will they accomplish that when all of their relatives have been dead for centuries?”

  Volpe frowned, obviously troubled. “I don’t know. But I am quite sure that we’ll have the answer soon enough.”

  As she spoke, she scratched at the back of her hand again, and this time she winced and looked down to see a purplish-red sore.

  What the hell? she thought. And then fear rippled through her and she looked up, thinking that somehow Volpe had done this to her, infected her with something. But when she saw the look in his eyes as he stared at the discolored, swollen blotch on her hand, she knew she was wrong. He knew what it was, but he hadn’t done it.

  “What?” she asked, her voice a rasp. “What is it?”

  Her throat had been dry and a bit raw, but now as she swallowed, it actually hurt. She coughed softly into her fist.

  Volpe looked down at his forearm. Where he’d been idly scratching, there were several of those sores.

  “Bastard,” Volpe sneered, but in his eyes—Nico’s eyes—she saw fear.

  “Tell me!” she snapped, too loud, drawing the attention of the other people in the little café. Twin girls eating lemon granita looked up at her. The barista fixing iced cappuccinos behind the counter gave an eye-roll and a shake of her head that showed her feelings about Americans.

  Geena took in the entire scene in a single moment. But then Volpe was standing, his chair sliding back. He put his spoon into his coffee cup and followed it with Geena’s, then stuffed both of their napkins into his pocket and shot her a hard look.

  “Take your cup,” he said, fury making his voice shake.

  She wanted to ask why, but her imagination had already begun to supply answers that made her want to collapse into a fetal ball or scream or run or all of those things. In her entire life, she did not think she had ever stolen anything, but as Volpe swept past her she lifted her cup from the table and followed him out.

  “Signora!” the barista yelled.

  Geena heard a ruckus behind her, realized it must be the barista or a waitress coming after them, and ran through the open café door. With Volpe beside her, she fled along the alley and onto a stone bridge spanning a narrow canal. A shout came from behind, but they ran on.

  Volpe coughed and she glanced at him to find that he had pulled Nico’s shirt up to cover his mouth and nose. Her chest burned with the effort of running—exertion that should not have troubled her at all—and she felt her own cough building. She cleared her throat.

  “Cover your mouth!” Volpe barked.

  Breathless, shivering, they darted down an alley on the right, then took the first jog to the left and ducked into a doorway. For a long minute they only stood there, still covering their mouths, but soon it became clear that the barista had abandoned the pursuit.

  Volpe stepped away from the recessed doorway. “Come.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Caravello’s corpse.”

  “But what if the police—”

  “We’ve got to reach it before they do. Before anyone else is exposed.”

  Icy dread filled her. “Exposed to what?”

  Nico’s eyes narrowed, but then his expression softened and she saw that Volpe had retreated deeper into his mind, letting Nico come to the fore again. He faltered a moment, turning to stare at her, then glancing at the cup and spoons in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and then nodded decisively.

  “Nico?” she said.

  “Hurry, Geena. He can still save us.”

  “From what?”

  Nico’s face went slack, his gaze numb as he reached up to scratch his arm and then dropped his hand, picking up his pace.

  “Contagion. Plague. Call it what you like. We’ve been infected, and we’ve got the plague, and we’ve got to stop it before it spreads.”

  They stood on the opposite side of the courtyard from Chiesa di San Rocco, watching warily for some sign that the murder of Giardino Caravello had been discovered. In the fading light of day, she could make out the blood that stained the cobblestones near the stairs. A spattered, broken trail led through the alley beside the church and up to the side door of the small taverna whose owner had abandoned it after the last flood.

  “No police yet,” Geena said quietly.

  “So no one saw us,” Nico replied, and coughed softly into his shirt.

  The little church square was still quiet. One old woman swept the steps of a small ladies’ clothing shop. They waited until she had gone back inside before starting across the courtyard.

  “I just had the ugliest thought,” Geena said. “What if a cat licked it? Or … or rats? That’s how it all starts, right?”

  “Whatever this contagion might be, it’s not going to follow any rules,” Nico replied. “Volpe has retreated now. It exhausts him, taking control.” He coughed, a wet rattle in his throat. “But I gleaned enough from him to know that this isn’t any ordinary sickness. It’s some kind of dark magic, some kind of booby trap or fail-safe that Caravello had running through his veins.”

  “But it’s been barely an hour,” Geena said. “Not even plague kills that fast.”

  Nico glanced anxiously at her. “We just have to pray. Otherwise …”

  He let that hang in the air between them. Neither of them wanted to think about “otherwise.” They hurried over the cobblestones, Geena feeling a prickling on the back of her neck that might have been a result of her rising fever but felt like the eyes of hidden observers. She shook it off as paranoia. The feeling had none of the skin-crawling urgency and certainty that she had felt when Caravello had been stalking her. But how strange she thought the two of them must look, covering their faces and carrying coffee cups in their hands …

  “What now?” she muttered as they approached the bloodstains …

  … and felt Nico touch her mind. His fear blazed brightly, along with a fierce love for her. He was more frightened of losing her than he was of dying himself, and the raw intensity of that love nearly brought her to tears. God, why had this happened to them? They had been so happy.

  And will be again, Nico thought, sending the words to her.

  Lowering the shirt from over her mouth, Geena glanced around the church square. You believe that?

  I have to.

  She nodded, turning to him. “We need Volpe.”

  The old Venetian, the magician—whatever he was—had retreated into Nico’s mind. The question of what exactly he was lingered in Geena’s thoughts and
she had seen it in Nico’s as well. If there were such things as ghosts, that was one thing, but Volpe was obviously something else. To possess the body of a man five hundred years after your own death … Volpe had power. But exerting it exhausted him, and he had been silent in Nico’s mind since they had fled the café. Geena had no sense of him in there. He had left Nico with a firm impression of what must be done, but they needed Volpe now.

  Nico nodded. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Whatever Nico did to attempt to summon Volpe, Geena heard nothing in her own mind. But then Nico gave a sharp intake of breath that became a hacking cough and he brought a hand to his mouth to cover it. And when he lowered his hand, his expression had changed again. She knew she was looking at Zanco Volpe, hiding behind Nico’s face. And Volpe looked tired.

  “Are we being watched?” Volpe asked wearily.

  Geena shook her head. “I don’t think so. What can you do? We can’t just leave the blood out here if it’s infected.”

  “No,” Volpe agreed. “We can’t.”

  He began to turn, but then shifted his gaze back to her. Geena did not have to ask what he was looking at. New sores had appeared on her arms and legs and one on her left cheek. More had erupted on Nico’s flesh as well.

  “It’s moving so quickly,” Volpe said.

  “Too quickly for us to … to have a chance?” Geena asked. She had been about to say “survive,” but couldn’t bring herself to use the word.

  “This is insidious magic,” Volpe said. “Caravello’s blood exposed us to this infection. I could almost admire it—the assured destruction of whoever might be responsible for your own murder—but this won’t only kill us. This is a hex-plague. Thousands could die, and all out of spite.”

  For the first time, Geena understood the loyalty Volpe had to his city. The old magician could be cruel and brutal in his efforts to preserve and protect Venice, and his arrogance was monumental. But she no longer doubted that the Doges were the enemy here. They were putrid creatures. Only a truly evil man could conceive of such an abhorrent act as Caravello’s fail-safe contagion.

  Volpe handed her his coffee cup and their two spoons but otherwise ignored her. He glanced around once, then thrust his arms downward, palms open and fingers splayed as though he were warming his hands over a fire. His fingers contorted, sketching odd symbols in the air, and he whispered something she could not hear.

  The bloodstained cobblestones burst into flame. Geena gasped and stepped back as fire raced along the spilled blood and flashed up from each of the splotches they had left behind when moving the Doge’s corpse to the abandoned taverna. It lasted only an instant, not much longer than the fire from the hand of some stage magician—a parlor trick.

  But what Volpe had done was no parlor trick. The cobblestones were not scorched at all, but they were clean—cleaner, perhaps, than they had been in generations—and no trace remained of the blood of Giardino Caravello and the sickness it carried.

  Nico staggered coming through the side door of the taverna. “So fast,” he muttered.

  Geena followed him in. He watched her close the door and said a silent prayer that no one had seen them. But his prayers weren’t only for their benefit. If the police came and caught them before the work they needed to do here had been completed, all of Venice might be in danger. All of Venice, and far beyond.

  She winced in pain as she coughed, and Nico felt her pain as his own. He tried to soothe her with his mind, but it was of no use. He could let her feel the depth of his love for her, the fullness of his heart, but he could not hide his own fear.

  Geena’s thoughts were clear. We just need to focus. Please. If there’s any chance to save ourselves, we have to hurry.

  Nico nodded. Together they slid a table against the door to prevent anyone else from coming in. The broken lock would be easily discovered, but at least this would gain them seconds in which to attempt escape, or finish the task at hand.

  With Geena so close, he could not avoid looking at the purplish-red swelling under her neck and the wet, leaking sores on her face. He bit his lip and forced himself to focus.

  Caravello’s body lay behind the bar, just as they had left it. The bloody trail on the floor had vanished, cleansed by the fire Volpe had summoned, but the corpse remained. Now, though, the flesh was pustulent and raw, and the dead Doge’s throat had swollen massively and turned black. They set the coffee cups and spoons and napkins on the floor beside the body.

  “I don’t understand,” Geena said. “If the Doges want Venice, why would Caravello do this, knowing it might kill everyone in the city?”

  “I don’t know,” Nico said. “Maybe it’s a side effect of accessing Akylis’ power? His evil? They’re contaminated.”

  “Maybe,” Geena said. “Or maybe he didn’t even trust his cousins. Maybe the fail-safe was so the other Doges couldn’t betray him. We don’t even know if the others are also carrying it.”

  Nico started to reply, but choked on a cough, which turned into a hoarse, seal-like bark that bent him double. When at last he caught his breath, he spat blood onto the floor.

  Geena stared at him. “Nico, your eyes.”

  He reached up to touch them and his fingers came away wet, not with tears but blood. Geena reached a hand toward his face. Nico felt his legs weaken and he collapsed to his knees, blackness swirling in his peripheral vision.

  Volpe, he thought, turning his focus inward. The ancient presence remained, but diminished. Nico could barely feel Volpe’s awareness within him. We’re going to die if you don’t wake up and do something. And what of you? Will you die without a host?

  Nico felt Volpe stirring, felt him rush upward, stepping forward to take control once again. But even as he did, he sensed barriers in place now between his mind and the old magician’s. Once again, Volpe was hiding something.

  * * *

  Geena saw it happen. Still on his knees, Nico sagged further, his head lolling onto his chest. Then his head snapped up, eyes narrowed, and though the fear remained it was no longer Nico’s fear, but Volpe’s. The shape of the mouth was different, and the merciless curl of the lip had returned.

  Volpe looked up at her. Then he reached out for a nearby chair and used it to pull himself to his feet.

  “Get me a knife. And hurry.”

  Chills racked her body, cold sweat dripping down her back and between her breasts, but Geena did as he asked. The kitchen had been stripped of most of its valuable equipment, but a drawer near the sink in back held a handful of old knives and wooden spoons and a ladle. She grabbed one of the knives and stumbled away from the counter, accidentally pulling out the drawer, which crashed to the floor. Geena barely noticed as she staggered back through the door into the restaurant proper.

  Light fixtures were dark. Ceiling fans did not turn. Dust covered the room. Over the stale smell of old beer, she could smell the stink of rotting flesh and knew the smell came from her own body as much as Caravello’s.

  How did I come to this? she thought. None of this is …

  Real? Possible? She shoved away the denials. The life she had known had felt strong and vibrant to her, but in truth it had been fragile and ephemeral. She had to tell herself that it could be reclaimed; that it waited for her, just out of reach. But if she ever hoped to have that life back, she and Nico first had to live, and she would do whatever was necessary to make certain of that. To protect him, above all.

  Nico—no, Volpe—pulled out a chair and sat down, the legs scraping on the dusty wooden floor.

  The knife, he thought.

  She swayed to a halt, brought up short. Get the fuck out of my head.

  He could use Nico’s ability after all. Or perhaps he and Nico were working together for now.

  We are, Nico said, reading her thoughts. We have to.

  Geena erupted in a fit of coughing, but in its midst she managed to give Volpe the dulled blade. He took her hand and sliced the blade across her palm. She tried to scream but only coughed hard, bla
ck spots swimming at the corners of her eyes.

  “Bastard,” she said, clutching her bleeding fist against her chest.

  But then an image rose in her mind, of the Council of Ten slicing their own palms as part of some spell of Volpe’s, and she knew this was magic. Blood magic.

  Volpe held up his own hand, Nico’s hand, and cut the palm, blood running down the blade of the knife. He held his fist above the splash of Geena’s blood already on the floorboards. For a moment he seemed to sag again, his eyelids drooping, and she thought he might pass out. His breath rattled with phlegm.

  “Wake up!” he said, and it was Nico’s voice, Nico’s panicked gaze.

  Replaced immediately by Volpe, blinking and shaking himself. He looked at Geena. “Paper? An old tablecloth? Did you see anything in the kitchen?”

  She shook her head and hugged herself, shivering with the chill of her fever. Pain had begun to make a fist in her gut, and she knew that to speak would be to give it voice.

  “Behind the bar, then. A rag. A napkin. Anything?”

  “Maybe,” she managed to say.

  Geena tried to rise and her legs went out from under her and she sprawled on the floor, little trickles of their blood spreading toward her, where her cheek lay on the coolness of the wood.

  “I’ll find something,” Volpe said. “I need his eyes, anyway.”

  “His … eyes …?”

  “They saw us in health. All the better to restore us, having those images.”

  Taking a guttural, rasping breath, he staggered to his feet and stalked across the room. She watched him go to the bar and vanish behind it. When the noises began—wet, squelching sounds—she closed her eyes, but that only made it worse, made the sounds clearer and her imagination more vivid.

  She gagged, managed to keep herself from throwing up, but then began to cough. Blood and bile filled her mouth and she spit it onto the floor, but the coughing continued until the black spots at the edges of her field of vision darkened and spread, and then the whole world tilted and …

  … How long? she thought as she opened her eyes. She knew she’d been out, but for how long? If Nico heard her thoughts—or Volpe, for that matter—neither of them replied.