The priest paused here, wiped his dry mouth, and clearly wished for wine. “I don’t know exactly how it came about, but the silver-plated blades were specially intended to kill werewolves, which up to that point had been invulnerable to any weapon. Since then, it is said, all silver is abhorrent to wolves. The silver-plated weapons were matched with wood from either the Longinus spear, or from the true cross — or from both, the book was imprecise, as old tomes often are — which was fashioned into scabbards for the daggers.”
“What’s the value of that?” Giovanni asked, interested despite his meager belief. In the distance, Allied planes pounded the harbor. He hoped this time, at least, they had found their target. Giovanni also hoped the German warships anchored there were taking a beating.
The priest explained: “One thing, the sanctified wood seems to veil the silver’s presence, so a werewolf cannot quickly sense the imminent danger of a formidable opponent, making it easier to take one by surprise. The mystic I spoke of further theorized that the holy weapon might be used by one man afflicted with the werewolf disease to fight and vanquish another, because he would be able to keep the blade close to his body without himself suffering the excruciating burns the silver would have caused him otherwise. The mystic called the dagger the werewolf’s werewolf killer.”
“Well, all this knowledge is fine and good, and your friend was certainly helpful, but what good has it done here?”
“After showing me the book, the Prefect went to a locked cabinet in this most secret of places and from it he removed a wooden case which held both daggers. He gave them to me, my friend, and I have brought them to Corrado.”
“My God.”
“Yes, perhaps it is God giving us an advantage. Perhaps it is something older than God. I am certain I do not know.”
“What does your friend think is the origin of these monsters?”
“My friend recounted the famous legend of Romulus and Remus, the babes who founded Rome — but more importantly, who were abandoned and later suckled by a she-wolf. Every schoolchild has heard this one, but there is an older, lesser-known legend in which the two male babes were not rescued, but were the offspring of the she-wolf, the result of copulation with a human. In this version, the babes Romulus and Remus were the first shapeshifters, and they passed on the gene to their own offspring. Perhaps the full moon’s influence on the night of conception has something to do with it. No one knows. But nothing could kill the cursed wolf-men until the Christ’s death led to the fashioning of the daggers.”
Giovanni digested the priest’s words.
“Now I want wine, Corrado, damn you.”
Outside, the all-clear sounded and the city came crawling out of its holes.
4
Giovanni blinked as they led him out of the air raid shelter they called Sanctuary.
It was dark, but even so it was brighter than the candle-lit cavern below.
After the all-clear, Corrado had assigned two men to accompany Giovanni to his apartment, where he hoped to find Franco.
Giovanni followed the tall, strangely nicknamed werewolf-killer Turco (who didn’t appear in the least Turkish) and a taciturn hulking giant of a man named Manfredo. They had given him a newer German P38 pistol he had again tucked into his belt, a commando-style knife, and in his hands he carried another Beretta submachine gun.
Just like that, it seemed, Giovanni had become a partisan.
Porca fortuna!
He was content to know Maria was as safe as she could be in the shelter, which was extensive and well-stocked, but his son’s safety was on his mind. And, if he were honest with himself, his own safety was as well — now, if he were stopped by the Germans, he would be summarily executed.
They crept through the ruined street, hoping that when they reached Giovanni’s there would be buildings left standing. No bombing could be completely accurate, but the amount of civilian devastation ringing the port was incredible. Parts of buildings spilled out debris and belongings, some still smoldering from this last Allied bombing run, which had mostly missed the harbor after all.
Here and there Giovanni saw a bloody arm or leg protruding from piles of brick and cement rubble. Confused survivors stumbled over the broken remainders of their lives, searching for loved ones, or memories to salvage.
Dazed, Giovanni followed Turco and Manfredo as they led him in redundant zig-zags down the street.
Turco held up a hand and they stopped, crouching low behind the remains of a brick wall. The thin, bearded academic didn’t look like a seasoned partisan, but Corrado had called him one of the best.
Giovanni couldn’t see what had caused Turco to stop them so suddenly.
Then a match flared only a couple meters away on the other side of the broken wall, and Giovanni made out a reflection on a German coal-shuttle helmet and the glint of a long bayonet fitted to the muzzle of a Mauser rifle.
Posted to catch us, Giovanni thought, his throat seizing and his heart racing.
Turco pressed his index finger on his lips, then waved Manfredo closer. His hand told Giovanni to wait there, under cover.
The two partisans crawled silently along their side of the wall until they reached a demolished corner. Shattered bricks lay all about. Giovanni could barely see, but these men had lived as outlaws for so long he assumed they’d developed night vision. They were now positioned immediately behind the unsuspecting sentry, as far as he could tell.
Suddenly there was a rattle of equipment, clothes, and debris as Turco went in high and dragged the German backward, his hand clasped tightly over the unfortunate’s face to keep him from shouting.
Manfredo lunged in from the side with the silver-bladed knife, ruthlessly plunging its length into the German’s side a half-dozen times. While Turco pulled the dying soldier back over the wall, Manfredo finished the job by slitting his throat with one savage motion.
They laid the bleeding, dying soldier on a bed of shattered bricks and raided his pockets and belt pouches for ammunition and food. A few moments later, a spasm took him and he sighed his last. Manfredo spat on him.
Turco nodded at Giovanni and they were on their way.
Giovanni gritted his teeth.
The whole encounter had taken less than a minute.
They continued, carefully avoiding the flickering light of fires that marked where gas lines had erupted, and any movement by crossing from shadow to shadow, occasionally hearing screams of pain and fear from people trapped in the ruins of their buildings. Giovanni’s heart cried, but Turco motioned them on, indicating they had to ignore the victims or they would themselves be sacrificed.
“We stop, we die,” he whispered.
Soon they left the devastated section behind with only a glow from the fires to mark what they had seen. As they approached Giovanni’s neighborhood, he was grateful to see that his building still stood — a seven-storey stucco-sided tenement with solid marble floors and heavy clay tile roof. It looked unharmed and his heart swelled at the thought of finding Franco at home.
“Watch out!” Turco cried, and lunged past.
Giovanni saw the glint of silver.
And heard snarling behind him.
5
By the time Giovanni managed to whirl around, the wolf was on him.