The Immortal City

by Amy Kuivalainen

  “I’ll be fine, don’t leave the Questore waiting. I don’t want him to have any reason to think I’m not keeping up my end of our deal.”

  “I believe he’s a little intimidated by you,” Marco replied. He went to kiss her cheek, hesitated, and held out his hand instead.

  Penelope shook it. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Inspector. Thank you for dinner.”

  “Prego. Be careful walking back.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a big tough girl who can handle herself.”

  Penelope watched him leave and for a moment felt remarkably lonely. While he was around, she wasn’t thinking of the man from her meditation or contemplating if she was losing her mind. A waiter brought her coffee and zaeti that she broke into pieces to dunk.

  Penelope had tried hard not to get caught up in superstitions and new age philosophies, but a secret part of her wanted to believe in the stories of a magical Atlantis. It just wasn’t the way to get anywhere in academia. After her astral projection and meeting the stranger, she was seriously reassessing what she believed. Carolyn was always insisting that the world was far weirder and more magical than what it appeared. Maybe it was time she started to listen.

  Penelope remembered the strange tug inside of her that had taken her to the café that didn’t exist. It had been like an invisible line that had pulled on her the same way the Atlantis Tablet had done the day she had found it.

  What was it? She closed her eyes and tried to focus, imagining it in front of her, and tugged back experimentally. When nothing happened, she shrugged and went back to her espresso.

  The stranger had said he was a magician, and she’d just spent an hour describing a killer trying to do magic. Her squid ink risotto shuddered in her stomach. Was he the one they were hunting? She rubbed her arm where he had touched it, trying to forget the phantom sensation of his hand. He hadn’t felt like a creepy murderer, but then what did evil feel like?

  Draining her coffee, Penelope got up and went to pay the bill, only to discover Marco had covered it on the way out. Keep this up, and we may even become friends, Marco. She smiled to herself and pocketed one of the restaurant’s business cards as a keepsake.

  Penelope strolled along the canal way until she reached a bridge over the Rio de la Toletta, and then stood admiring the lights of the houses reflecting on the night-blue water.

  A sudden sharp sting in her side caused her to gasp, and Penelope turned to see the glint of a small blade in the hand of a stranger. She gripped her ribs in shock, pain shooting through her as hot blood gushed between her fingers.

  “You are no seeker,” the man said, and as he made to stab her again, Penelope threw herself at him, trying to unbalance him.

  “Help!” she tried to yell, her voice a hoarse gasp. Her legs started to buckle, and she grabbed vainly at the stone rail for support.

  “Pathetic,” the man said. His smile was cold in the lamplight as he shoved her hard.

  Penelope toppled over the side of the bridge into the water, the freezing salty blackness of the canal dragging her under.

  PENELOPE FELT WARM light before something heavy crashed into her and dragged her up and out of the darkness. Wet, hot lips pressed insistently against hers moments before water rushed out of her lungs. She flickered in and out of consciousness as someone carried her through the gate of a canal entrance.

  A deep voice shouted commands as she was placed on something dry and soft. With blurry vision, she saw the face of an older woman hovering over her. Behind her, a soaked man was speaking swiftly in a language she didn’t understand.

  “Be quiet, she’s trying to say something,” the woman commanded him.

  Penelope looked up at his familiar blue eyes and whispered, “Firecrackers,” before her world went dark once more.

  The next time Penelope woke, the pain in her side had faded to a dull throb. A man sat in a chair beside her. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on him. He had long, curling blond hair and amber eyes as keen as a wolf’s.

  “Well, well, look who is awake. The mystery woman that has everyone so excited,” he said with a smile.

  Penelope tried to move, but her limbs refused to budge under the thick blanket that had been placed over her. Where am I?

  “I don’t recommend moving just yet, your body is trying to heal a fatal knife wound and won’t be rushed.” The stranger reached out a hand and ran it two inches above her body. “Your flesh is mending, but your chakras are shot. Your root chakra doesn’t seem to be working at all. Once you are feeling up to it, I could help you get it going again.”

  Penelope had no idea what he was talking about, but the way he said it made it sound suggestive. “Where is my phone?”

  The golden-haired man pointed to a small table next to the couch. “You are lucky Galenos is so good with electronics. Otherwise it would have been completely wrecked.” Penelope snatched her phone and held it protectively to her chest. She was about to ask him who he was when a door opened, and the man from her meditation came into the room. Her eyes went wide with angry recognition.

  “Oh, my mistake. There it goes, your chakra flaring red hot,” the golden-haired man said suddenly. He looked over his shoulder, following Penelope’s gaze, and his beautiful face pulled back in a snarl. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Who are you? And where am I?” Penelope demanded, not looking away from the Turkish man. “Is this real or am I…?”

  “You aren’t dead,” the man from her meditations said, his rolling accent more pronounced than she remembered. “I’m Alexis, and this’s Phaidros. You seem to have survived an attempted murder.”

  The golden-haired man got up with a disgusted snort. “I still think you should’ve let her die. This drowned rat hardly seems worth the magic we spent on healing her.”

  “Get out, Phaidros, before you make matters worse,” Alexis said. His tone was soft, but the threat in it made the hair on Penelope’s arms stand on end.

  “Where am I?” Penelope repeated, her hands bunching into fists. Alexis sat down in Phaidros’s chair, his expression guarded.

  “My palazzo in Dorsoduro. I brought you here so that my friend Nereus could save you. You were stabbed and tossed into the canal like garbage. Any idea why?”

  Penelope remembered the sensation of the cold blade sliding between her ribs. Her hand reached under the blanket and touched the fresh, tender scar on her left side. I should be dead.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, even as she tried pushing her way further up her pillows so that she could face him. He leaned over to help her, and she caught the sandalwood scent that seemed to emanate from him.

  “Phaidros and I were out walking when I felt you pull on our…connection. I felt your pain,” he admitted slowly, straightening the cuffs of his white shirt. “I sent Phaidros after the man who did this to you, but someone had gotten to him first. He had his throat cut in the middle of the street, so we can assume he was a hired blade.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would attack me. I am no one; I don’t know anyone in Venice. I wasn’t even wearing jewelry to rob.”

  “But you are working on a murder investigation and hunting dark priests of Thevetat. That’s more than enough reason to want you dead.”

  “How do you know that?” Penelope asked suspiciously. Who is this guy?

  His smile was mysterious as he said, “Magic.”

  “Did you kill that woman?” Penelope asked, trying to calculate how far she could get from the couch to the door on the other side of the room. She glanced at a glass vase not far from her; if she had to defend herself, it would be the closest weapon she had.

  “If I was the murderer you are hunting, do you think I would have bothered to dive into a freezing canal to save you?”

  “Then why did you?” she demanded. “And why do you keep turning up in my meditations?”

  Alexis crossed his long legs in front of him. “I don’t know. It has never happened before.”

  “You should kil
l her,” a sharp female voice interrupted them.

  A black woman appeared in the room, but no doors had opened. She looked like she had been cut from a swathe of shadow with intricate white tattoos decorating her muscled arms. She had long silver hair and gray eyes. Blades glimmered in her hands as she approached them at a silent stalk.

  Adrenaline dumped down Penelope’s spine, and she struggled to sit up, grinding her teeth against the pain in her side.

  “Stay back, Lyca,” Alexis warned, his whole body stiffening.

  “It would be best for all of us, Alexis, you know this. Leave, and I’ll make it quick and painless.”

  Alexis was suddenly on his feet and standing between them, a strange blue light shimmering under the skin of his arms. “I won’t warn you again.”

  “You dare threaten me…” Lyca growled.

  An older woman materialized between them. “That’s enough.” She hadn’t raised her voice, but the pair of them obeyed instantly. “Lyca, you’re forbidden to touch Penelope, do you understand?”

  “My lady,” Lyca hissed as she bowed low, her blades disappearing into her robes. The light coming from Alexis vanished, and he stepped back to let the older woman pass. Her gray hair was long and loose, and she had a brown, lined face of unknowable age. She wore a green-and-blue dress and had the bearing of a queen.

  “Doctor Bryne, I apologize for their behavior. They aren’t used to guests,” the woman told her. When she got close enough, Penelope realized she could see the faint outline of Lyca’s figure through her. She’s astral projecting!

  “You aren’t really here, are you?” Penelope asked.

  “She’s quick, Alexis,” the woman said approvingly, “and she isn’t screaming, a sign of good sense. I’m Nereus. How are you feeling?”

  “A little sore and I’ve got a headache,” she answered. “I’m mostly confused about waking up in a house full of strangers. Thank you for helping me, though.”

  “Thank Alexis. He’s the one who believed you were worth saving,” Nereus replied.

  “My lady, we need to wipe her memory and dump her outside,” Lyca interrupted. “This woman exposes all of us.”

  “I understand your concern, but you forget something vital. The palazzo let Penelope in. Not only in physical form, but also metaphysically. You know the safeguards are still in place. You have checked them yourself.” Nereus gave Penelope a once-over. “She’s important somehow.”

  “If she is important, we let fate decide,” Alexis said, folding his arms stubbornly. “I’ll wipe her memory and put her back in her hotel as Lyca says. If she finds her way back to us again, then we accept her. We haven’t let a human live among us for a long time, and as Nereus says, she’s important.”

  “She is sitting right here—” Penelope began.

  “Agreed,” Lyca replied, ignoring her. “But you aren’t allowed to appear to her in any way to spark her search.”

  “I never did in the first place,” Alexis replied coolly.

  A snort of disbelief announced Phaidros’s reappearance. Penelope wondered how many more of them there were.

  “Look, I’m not a threat to anyone,” she interrupted. “I don’t care who any of you are, and you have no right to tell me what to do. I’m not interested in coming back here, and I’m certainly not going to let you wipe—”

  Alexis touched her head, and her world spun once more.

  Penelope felt someone scoop her up out of the chair. With bleary eyes, she could make out the sharp line of Alexis’s jaw and stern eyes as he carried her through a door and out into the street. Penelope looked behind her as the blue-and-gold door shut, bright Roman numerals XXXIX shining before the door disappeared.

  “Pretty door,” she mumbled. The street lantern above her flickered, and suddenly they were in her hotel room.

  “I do wish you would take those evil photos down,” Alexis muttered under his breath. “Black magic is bad for you, Doctor Bryne.” He placed her on the bed and pulled off her boots. “Rest now.”

  Penelope reached out and grabbed his hand tightly. “Don’t want to forget…you…bastard,” she mumbled before the magic overwhelmed her.

  PENELOPE WOKE TO the sound of frantic knocking on her hotel room door. “Signorina Penelope!” Louisa yelled. “Inspecttori Dandolo is here! Are you in there?”

  “I’m here. I’ll be down in a moment!” she called back as she tried to get her bearings.

  Penelope climbed out of bed, swaying unsteadily, and headed for the bathroom. She had slept in her clothes that smelled like salt and something burnt, and her hair was riotously frizzy even though she knew she had straightened it before going out to dinner the previous night. She found her phone crammed into her back pocket, the battery flat.

  What happened last night? She searched her hazy memory as she stripped and climbed into the hot shower. She soaped herself down, touching her left side, and then again as if she expected it to feel differently.

  Ten minutes later she pulled on fresh clothes and ran downstairs. Marco was waiting at the kitchen table, looking out of sorts.

  “How much did you drink last night?” he asked which told her that she looked far worse than he did.

  “Only what I had at dinner,” Penelope replied, taking her coffee from Louisa and downing it.

  “I suppose you have your phone off too?” he asked irritably.

  “It’s dead…Why? What happened?”

  “There was another murder last night. I’ve been trying to reach you since 5:00 a.m.”

  “Five! Shit. I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep last night and forgot to charge it,” Penelope fumbled. But wait—how had she gotten back to the hotel? She remembered having her dessert and leaving the café, but the rest was a blank.

  Marco’s anger faded when he realized she wasn’t faking it. “It’s okay. There isn’t much you could’ve done with all the polizia in the way. You look like you are going to be sick…Maybe a tourist drugged you.”

  “I can’t remember drinking anything that tasted weird. Is there such a thing as delayed jet lag?”

  “It doesn’t matter. This body won’t wait.” Marco drained his coffee and got to his feet.

  The cold air outside did nothing to clear the sleep or confusion from Penelope’s mind.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as she stepped unsteadily into the boat.

  “Cannaregio,” Marco replied grimly. “The body was found by an elderly nun visiting the Isola di San Michele. They’ve had to treat her for shock, and the whole island has been closed.”

  Penelope didn’t ask him any more questions; she was too focused on breathing, so she didn’t throw up over the side of the boat.

  She saw a flicker of lapis blue in the corner of her eye but when she turned it was only a woman’s sweater and not…what? There was something…something important about that blue. She had never been particularly attracted to the color, and now she was like a bowerbird.

  Maybe you ate bad squid risotto last night. Food poisoning would explain her nausea. She focused on the horizon and tried to clear her head. She didn’t want to embarrass herself at the crime scene by not being able to give any insight or by being unable to stand straight.

  The red walls of the Isola di San Michele rose up in front of them, police boats floating offshore to dissuade any civilian sailors from getting too close. Marco pulled the boat closer to dock at a small jetty. The iconic white domes were painfully bright in the early morning glare, and Penelope tried not to look up at them.

  San Michele was an island of the dead, the famous cemetery including the likes of Stravinsky and Ezra Pound. It had been one of the highlights of her previous trip, and ten years later, she was back to look at a body.

  How life had changed from a month ago when she was receiving emails telling her that she was either a flunky historian or a prophetess for the Lemurians.

  A crowd of police officers opened a path for Marco and Penelope as they walked through the garden entrance and d
own to a small stretch of beach.

  The retaining wall had been graffitied with the now familiar, but no less maddening Atlantean script. Pegged into the tiny stretch of sand was a horse constructed of burnt bones and driftwood. Bent over and fed through an enormous rib cage, hands tied upward to make a neck, was the body of a man crowned with a black stallion’s head. Its hooves had been hacked off…and…and…

  The sand swayed under Penelope’s feet, and she bent over and vomited in the waves.

  “GOD, I’M embarrassed,” Penelope complained from the shade of the trees. Instead of being openly ridiculed by the group of police, a young officer had loaned her a spare Italia National Football T-shirt from his gym bag. It hung to her knees, and she tried not to ruin it with vomit as well.

  Marco handed Penelope a bottle of water. “You aren’t the first person to be sick at a murder scene, Dottore, and you won’t be the last. I thought you were only hungover this morning. I didn’t realize you were so ill.”

  “I blame seafood dinners in dodgy Venetian cafés,” Penelope said, her head between her knees. “I should be okay soon.”

  Marco rested his large hand on her forehead. “You are burning with fever. I’m going to get someone to take you back to Dorsoduro. I can come by the hotel tonight and bring you photos. Go back to bed. You are no use to me or the case like this.”

  Marco walked Penelope down to the dock and instructed an officer in a patrol boat to return her to Dorsoduro.

  “Make sure you take photos of the wall in order this time,” Penelope said as she climbed into the boat. “There are more alchemical symbols that would—”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll see you tonight and bring you some soup,” Marco said.

  “Le Doge Cane likes you,” the young officer, Francesco, noted with a sly smile as the boat pulled from the dock.

  “How can he resist when I’m at my most charming?” Penelope quipped.

  Francesco looked at the football shirt she was wearing, staring at her chest a fraction too long. “That’s his favorite team.”

  Penelope wanted to reply with something clever, but all that came out was a scathing, “Fuck off and drive.”