“I have yet to hurt you.”
Nico gasped and leaned forward against the mausoleum. He heard footsteps, and glancing to one side he saw that one of the monks had returned. The old man paused for a moment, watching Nico, and then he bowed his head softly and left. They think I’m mourning someone dead, he thought, when in fact I’m cursing them. Volpe allowed him this thought, and then Nico felt control taken from him again.
He watched, but did not command. He moved, but did not instruct. The dead Venetian pulled his marionette strings, and Nico had no option but to obey.
He wandered some more, straying into an old part of the cemetery. Here he found a broken tomb, and as he lifted a triangle of jagged rock, several lizards darted across the stone. One of them seemed to freeze and bend to look up at him. Then it lowered to its stomach and flipped onto its back, dead.
Nico’s body, Volpe’s mind, carried the heavy shard of tombstone back to the mausoleums, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby. He set the book down between his feet and swung the stone at the tomb he had chosen.
The façade cracked, but it took several more strikes before it crumbled and fell away. He cut the back of his left hand against a sharp edge, and as the pain filtered through to Nico, Volpe opened his mouth and laughed. Birds, unconcerned at the impact of rock on stone, took startled flight at the laughter. He reached inside for the metal ossuary. It was strangely warm to the touch and Nico jerked his hand back as if stung … then reached forward again, hearing a sigh in his mind as his fingers closed around a rusted metal handle. As he pulled, metal scraping across stone, the sound of approaching footsteps startled him. He tugged harder and the container slid out, dropping to the ground, lid snapping open, contents spilling across the random stone paving.
Looking up, he saw the shadow first, and then the monk rounded the corner.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man said, aghast.
Help me, Nico wanted to say. But as he reached out his hands to plead, he felt Volpe rising again, both angry and excited, and so full of life for a man long dead.
VII
ON THURSDAY morning, Geena sat inside a small café across the street from the Biblioteca. She had spoken to the police the previous afternoon and then spent time at the site with her team, but she had been totally consumed by thoughts of Nico. They had all noticed how preoccupied she was, but Domenic—always looking out for her—had done his best to divert any questions that weren’t work related. They all meant well, she knew. Domenic had reassured her that Nico was probably just clearing his head, that he’d be back.
But Wednesday night had turned into Thursday morning without any word from Nico.
She ought to be at the Biblioteca right now. The BBC camera crew had arrived, including a specialist in underwater documentary footage and several divers. The rest of Howard Finch’s production team would reach Venice in another day or two, but the dive was scheduled to begin within hours. Her team would be waiting for her. She ought to go in.
Instead, she sat watching the entrance to the Biblioteca from inside the café. She’d seen Finch arrive a few minutes earlier. Domenic had already texted her to say he was on his way and that Ramus, Sabrina, and Tonio were already inside. They were probably fending off the ire of Adrianna Ricci.
She ought to go in. It was her project.
But Domenic hadn’t arrived yet, and she needed to speak with him without the others around. And all the while she bore a sinking feeling in her gut, knowing she was letting everyone down.
She had just ordered another coffee when Domenic hurried through the door.
“Geena!” he said. “What’s wrong? Your messages had me worried.”
“He still hasn’t come back,” she said. “He hasn’t called and I’ve had these terrible feelings that …” She sobbed, once and loud, and it startled her so much that she gasped before the first tear came.
Domenic sat at her table and propped his bag against the chair legs, waved at a waitress, and generally did everything he could to avoid looking at her. I can’t blame him, she thought, and she sniffed and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“Sorry,” she said. Domenic glanced at her and waved his hand—Hey, don’t mention it—but still could not meet her eyes. “But it’s just not like him!”
Domenic held both hands out, shoulders raised in a frozen shrug.
“I know.” Geena sighed. “I know. Nico and I kept it to ourselves for so long. It’s awkward.”
“Not really awkward,” he said. “Just …” The waitress came then, and they both ordered large cappuccinos with extra shots. When she left, Domenic sat quietly looking through the window at the library building across the street. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
“Just what?” Geena asked. He really wants to be over there, not here with me. And I can’t blame him for that. Will he blame me for not wishing the same?
“Well, he’s not a kid,” he said. “A lot … you know … younger than you, but no kid. He can look after himself.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, but she already knew. She’d been so wrapped up in her own world that she hadn’t taken time to try to view it from the outside.
“I mean, is Nico missing, or is he just not here? With you?”
“You think this is to do with things between me and him?” she asked. And yes, that was exactly what he meant. A flush of anger rose and receded again, and in its place was a sudden sense of how alone she was. This hit Geena sometimes, striking hard when she least expected—a feeling that no one else really understood her. Before Nico, she’d believed it stemmed from being so mixed up in history that the present was not the same place for her as it was for other people. Much of the time she spent thinking about the past, not the here and now, and some days she’d go home after a day at the university and spend the evening adjusting to the present. And then Nico came, touching her mind, and the reasons for her remoteness became wonderfully different.
“I’m just trying to look at it from all angles, Geena.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you what sort of trouble I thought he was in,” she said. “That policeman you put me onto, I spoke with him on the phone yesterday, and I didn’t tell him, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think Nico beat someone half to death yesterday.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks and placed them on the table quickly, sensing the awkward silence her presence had instilled. Geena held Domenic’s gaze, trying to read his expression. Past the shock she saw concern for her, heartfelt and deep, and she reminded herself that she had friends.
“What do you mean?” he asked when the waitress left.
Geena looked up when the café door opened. Finch stood in the doorway. A smile was already slipping from his face when he saw them, one hand half raised in greeting.
“Howard,” she said, waving him in. He was the last person she’d wanted to speak to, yet he’d arrived at an opportune moment. Had she really wanted to tell Domenic about the beaten man? And if she did, how the hell would she explain how she’d linked Nico with the assault?
She couldn’t. No one would believe her, and besides, her bond with Nico was precious and personal. It was special and peculiar to them, and she had never mentioned it to another person.
“Am I, er, disturbing …?” Howard asked.
“Not at all,” Geena said. “Please.” She pointed at the seat beside Domenic, and the producer sat down awkwardly. He coughed, rubbed his hands together, then shook his head when the waitress stood beside him.