by Jenn Stark
“Not all that deep. Ol’ Prelate Patrick had plenty of information available from the most basic of Google searches.”
“Please tell me his name really isn’t Patrick.”
“It’s not.” She grinned. “But that sounds better then Prelate Alfonse. Anyway, the prelate has been custodian of the Casino of Spirits for the past decade. It’s a quiet job, given over mostly to maintaining the research library and allowing tours every so often. The library is for members of any established religious order, and it contains texts on world religions that are considered to be quite extensive.”
“A haunted house seems like an odd place for a library.”
“From what Simon was able to gather, its relative remoteness and less than ideal location was chosen quite deliberately. The church didn’t want to give the arcane texts more power than they really deserved by outright banning them, and they were too well-known to simply be destroyed. So shutting them up in a tiny little building which is difficult to access, not to mention haunted, tends to cut down on the curiosity seekers. And it became known that those who frequented the Casino of Spirits were put on a watch list by their sponsoring order, which also helped cut down on patronage.”
“A watch list seems a lot worse than your standard library fine.”
“You’re not kidding. It doesn’t stop inquiries, though. Most of the searches tend to be along the lines of identifying specific demons in a spiritual practice’s deep mythology. And perhaps not surprisingly, there’s been a noticeable uptick in those types of searches in the last few weeks. Simon suggested that the prelate might have some questions for you on that topic.”
I lifted my brows. “The prelate knows I’m involved with the rash of demons that’s hit the planet?”
Nikki snorted. “Honey, everyone north of the equator knows you’re involved with that. But bottom line, the prelate himself isn’t so much an enigma as boring as shit. Started out as a Catholic priest in the requisite tiny little town in Italy, moved up to becoming an administrator at the Vatican, ran afoul of some church staff realignment—though it seems a benign issue, not that he caught the pope’s robes on fire or anything—and he got put on spook duty. That was ten years ago, and he’s been here ever since. He’s allowed himself to let his freak flag fly a bit more in the subsequent years, but only among close friends.”
I grimaced. “That’s all Simon could find?”
“That’s all we’ve got so far, yup. Simon texted me some family stuff that might have bearing—Alfonse’s family used to live in Venice during the Middle Ages, a fair number of them priests. Then again, a fair number of everybody’s families seemed like they were priests in the Middle Ages.”
“Beats working in the fields, I guess.”
“And you never needed to worry about what to wear.”
Valetti chose that moment to interrupt our conversation, and we were out the door and onto his private pier a few moments later, where a small motorboat waited for us.
“It is a beautiful day, and there are so many tourists in the city. This is easier than walking, especially when we get into open water.” He smiled with his usual self-deprecation. “And, too, if we are followed, we will know it much more quickly in a boat, yes?”
This made perfect sense, and I certainly didn’t mind the open-air transportation. Today, none of us were wearing masks. However, by the time we entered the Grand Canal, I realized that our lack of costumes put us so much in the minority, I began to feel seriously underdressed.
As we left the canals and moved into the shallow Venetian lagoon, I was gripped by an undeniable apprehension. I scowled down at the water, reminding myself that it was only a few meters deep. Deep enough to drown in, sure, but it wasn’t like we were boating over the Mariana Trench. I didn’t really have anything to worry about. And I could swim, technically, though that was a recent development. I didn’t want to test that skill out right now to see if it remained with me.
Pushing those thoughts away, I turned to Valetti. “Carnevale starts tonight, right? The big parade or whatever?”
“The opening ceremony is tonight, and the parade is tomorrow. Piazza San Marco will be overrun for the next two weeks. The balls commence at the same time, both the public ones and the more private ones.” He gave me what could only be a pitying glance. “I can get you tickets into some of the events, but some, I’m afraid, are invitation only and quite exclusive.”
“I’ll try to conceal my disappointment.”
Once again, he didn’t seem to understand the sarcasm for what it was and instead nodded encouragingly. Beside me, Nikki turned away to stare out over the lagoon, and I watched her shoulders tremble with quiet laughter.
We arrived at the Casino of Spirits a half hour later, Valetti making good on his intention to ensure we were not being tailed. The building itself was not all that prepossessing, a thought that made me smirk, though it was pretty in its own way: a three-story rose-brick row house rising in front of us, with a view that gave way to a private dock and a more traditional church-like building plus several other smaller structures on the far side.
Standing on the dock were two men, both in coordinating priest’s robes, both looking like they routinely accepted visitors on the front dock, though we were the only boat venturing close.
“Why aren’t the others trying this?” I asked, peering over at the tourists who were staring at us, cameras poised. I turned away, once more regretting that we weren’t wearing masks.
“Because their pilots know they will be refused. You come to the private dock of the Casino of the Spirits by invitation only. Otherwise, there is a public entrance at the front.” Valetti gave a dismissive wave. I was beginning to think dismissive waves were the Venetian salute.
I turned my attention to the men waiting to greet us. The prelate in his emerald-green robes stood taller and straighter than the black-frocked priest beside him, thin and angular beneath robes that seemed a size or two too big. His face was gaunt and unsmiling as we pulled up, and I waited until Nikki had clambered out of the boat and turned to me before letting myself be hauled onto the dock. When my feet were on more or less steady ground, I turned to the prelate.
“Justice Wilde,” he said without preamble, his hard gaze narrowing on me intently. “You’ve been busy.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Alfonse the Prelate.” I stared back at him. “You’ve been snooping.”
A quick, surprised smile flashed across the man’s taciturn face, then he was back to his Sam the Eagle routine. “Count Valetti has explained at length his concerns regarding a potential attack during Carnevale, and your potential aid in stopping it. I can shed some light—but only some. I suspect the count’s fears are overstated.”
I blinked. That wasn’t exactly a whole-hearted endorsement of the senate’s head of security. “I certainly hope you’re right,” I offered.
“Alfonse is at heart a pragmatist,” Valetti interjected with an almost fatherly indulgence, though from what I could tell, the men were contemporaries. “He is forever debunking our overwrought concerns, even mine, which are perhaps more well-grounded than most.”
Alfonse turned his cool gaze on Valetti, then slanted his attention back to me. “We can go inside. It’s a far more comfortable place to have a conversation.”
We turned and moved toward the great doors of the casino. “I trust Count Valetti has given you the history of our fair library?” he asked.
“The highlights.” I nodded.
“Then allow me to fill in what I may.” I didn’t really need the dime tour, but it seemed like everyone in Venice was one coin slot away from becoming a perpetual-loop visitor’s guide. “What we think of as the casino is technically the annex building of the Palazzo Contarini dal Zaffo, which belonged to Joseph Contarini in the sixteenth century. While in its earliest days the casino got its name from being a boisterous house of entertainment, over the years that description morphed into one far more sinister. That the casino is a
n accursed place, filled with ghosts.”
“Are there cemeteries on the grounds?” I asked.
“There are undoubtedly some souls buried within these walls,” the prelate said cryptically, because—of course he would. “But Venice as a city was devastated by the bubonic plague several times over. There have been many deaths on this lagoon that could give rise to the spirits that are believed to haunt this building. The most famous ghost we are credited with is that of Luzzo, a painter from the sixteenth century. As the legend goes, Luzzo used to meet in one of the rooms with Giorgione, Titian, and Sansovino. He was madly in love with one of the lovers of Giorgione, a young woman named Cecilia—and she did not return his affections. Some say he committed suicide in despair, but in any event, he returns from time to time, seeking her still.”
“Such a tragedy,” murmured Valetti. I cocked an amused glance at him.
“Granted, most of the rumors began because of the building’s isolated location and the sound of the lagoon water in constant motion, as well as the frequent breeze that whistles along the stones. But the stories add a bit of color to the place.”
“Valetti mentioned that there are essentially two sections to the casino,” I said, trying to steer the conversation to more useful areas. “Will we be able to use the library, or is it occupied?”
“We always have researchers from one religious doctrine or another seeking answers they cannot find elsewhere in the world.” Alfonse nodded. “They won’t disturb us, however. And the public tours are finished for the morning. Come this way.”
We entered the cool quiet space of the casino, moving down hallways that were largely unadorned. You could tell the space had once been meant for social gathering, but now it looked much like what it was, a haven for study and retreat.
“Do you enjoy it here?” I asked, breaking the stillness that had begun to encroach around us.
Alfonse glanced my way. “It isn’t for me to enjoy or not enjoy a mission for the church. My duty is to protect this place and serve those who come here.”
“And to keep the lore of the city updated,” Valetti cut in with a little more strength to his voice then seemed necessary.
Alfonse, for his part, merely shrugged. “I am happy to serve the senate in the way that also brings the greatest glory to this space and to God. No matter how that may best be accomplished.”
He said this last bit directly to Valetti, who continued to eye him with something that now approached suspicion. Apparently unfazed, Alfonse turned back to me. “I am most interested in what you would be willing to share, Justice Wilde. I find my information on the history of your organization is severely lacking.”
My brows went up, but before I could respond, Alfonse glanced down the corridor. “Ah, here we are,” he said. We entered a doorway flanked by two tall pillars, one light, one dark. Then Alfonse ushered us into a room that looked like a party hall for monks. There was a long wooden table with benches on either side, the wood polished and worn to a soft sheen. No artwork adorned the walls, but shelves of books lined the space, most of the titles looking old and esoteric. Three doors were cut into the far wall alongside all the books, and surmounting the doors were carved flowers—presumably the patron flowers of Italy. I could make out a rose, a lily, and some little scrubby-looking flowers. Poppies, maybe.
“You don’t preserve any of your history in digital format?” I asked, thinking of Mrs. French and the antiquated though certifiably operational pneumatic tube system in my office. What was it about curators of the arcane that prompted them to err on the side of the archaic when it came to their storage processes? “What if there’s a fire?”
“Perish the thought, but of course you are correct. We do have a fully digitized file system of all the artifacts in this museum. Translated into English at a minimum, other languages as befits their origins. That said, the experience of the old texts is as much in their tactile sensation as it is in the content of their scripts. We find that those who come to research here crave the full experience.”
“Got it.” It didn’t explain the group’s aversion to email, but at least it made sense in terms of accessing ancient books. It also allowed me to bypass any farce of reading library books while we were here. Simon would be able to download the entire collection in a blink, and we could search the contents at our leisure—assuming they were accurate translations. The Arcana Council had its own library of the mystical and absurd, I knew. There’d be enough overlapping texts that we’d be able to see if the prelate had been abridging the electronic versions of the sacred texts, and how.
We took our positions at the table, and I noticed that Alfonse didn’t offer us any refreshments. Probably a good thing, with priceless books not three feet away.
The prelate laid his hands on the table and stared at them, seeming to organize his thoughts as he regarded his fingertips. Then he lifted his gaze and spoke.
“Valetti advised that your Council has grown concerned about the events in Venice this past fortnight, particularly as they relate to the resurgence of interest around the butcher of Venice.”
I glanced at Valetti sharply. He made a gesture as if to say, go with it. I went.
“You know that tale, I’m sure,” Alfonse continued.
“The basics,” I allowed.
“The basics are all that’s necessary. The butcher ran a sausage and stew shop and was known in many circles as a closet alchemist and sorcerer. The general public, of course, had no knowledge of this. Neither did the ruling Council of Venice at the time—neither the magicians’ senate, nor the official city government. And so they were all caught off guard when a stonemason found the finger of a small child in his soup—complete with the nail.”
I grimaced. No matter how often I heard this tale, it never got any better.
“Upon searching the butcher’s kitchens, the authorities found the remains of other humans, predominately children. The butcher was arrested, tortured, dismembered, and ultimately put to death. However, because his crimes were so heinous, he lives on in the popular imagination of Venetians and tourists alike. The butcher’s shop was demolished, of course, and there’s only the street named after him that can center the public’s focus. He should have been forgotten long ago. He’s of no concern now.”
“Okay, so why is someone distributing recipe booklets with parts redacted and attributing it to this guy?” I remained acutely aware of the recipe book I’d received from Balestri’s doctor, which I hadn’t shared with Valetti. I’d spent most of the previous night reading it, and I was itching to get my hands on a second one.
“Publicity? Variety? It could be any number of things. But I have examined the recipe booklet that Count Valetti received and a few of the others, and I have found that though they are bound with aged leather, they have been written on thoroughly modern paper, with a modern hand. The directions for the preparation of the stew in question are admittedly written in a more archaic format, but nothing more than it would take anyone with access to the internet or old books to cobble together pretty quickly based on other recipes from the time.”
“Alfonse,” Valetti said quietly, almost reprovingly. “You cannot dispute that more members of the community than we know received such a book. Even members who have done their level best not to be known outside our number as magicians.”
“Where are you keeping the books you’ve received, anyway?” I piped up. “It’d be helpful to take a look at them.”
That reasonable request seemed to catch the prelate off guard. “Why?” he asked. “I’ve told you what the contents are.”
“Yeah, well, this is a library, and those are books,” I said, the soul of reason. “Surely you have them here.”
“Of course I do,” the prelate huffed. Even Valetti was eyeing him oddly now, and I didn’t miss the thread of concern that skated across the count’s face. These two guys might or might not like each other, but they definitely weren’t pals.
“It’s a fair request, Alf
onse. What have you done with the books?”
“They are safe, there,” Alfonse said, pointing to a box that looked like a receptacle for donations at church—very narrow opening on the top, heavy padlock on the side. No one was getting in there without a key. “And despite what you believe, Count Valetti, there have been only four copies recovered. I’ve only your insistence that there are others out there.”
Valetti looked mutinous, and it was all I could do not to toss my own recipe book on the table. But the prelate kept going. “As I’ve said before, I am less worried about the return of a medieval butcher and far more about the possibility of disaffection within our ranks.”
Valetti exhaled with irritation. “I don’t know why you are resisting this idea so much. It is getting in the way of solving this problem before another one of our own is struck.”
“The magicians of Venice are not getting targeted,” snapped the prelate, with more energy than I’d seen him display so far. “The senate has become a bored lot of fools who are searching for meaning outside of ourselves, irritated that other factions of the arcane community have outdistanced us in utilizing their magical abilities to manipulate others.”
Something must have flickered on Valetti’s face, because Alfonse smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. “Yes, Count Valetti, I listen to the murmurs of our members on occasion. I understand the challenges that the magicians of this community face, and I applaud you for holding the line for as long as you have. But even if you cave and enter the drug trade, that’s not something you require my assistance for—or the assistance of a hired killer.”
He gestured toward me, and I found myself resisting the urge to look behind me, in case there was someone standing there I didn’t know about. Hired killer? “Um, I don’t typically—”
“Dammit, Alfonse,” Valetti growled. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Signore Balestri died last night. In his own house. By his own hand.”
