“A building collapsed today in Dorsoduro. A bunch of people were killed. Supposedly they found a massive tomb hidden beneath it.”
Volpe stared at her, then turned away with a snarl of disgust. “I should have known.”
“What?”
“I should have felt it,” Volpe said. He looked out the window at the fading daylight. “I am less than alive, but more than dead. Not a ghost, but not a man. When you told me the Mayor had been murdered, it upset me that I had not already felt it. I am the Oracle of Venice. The soul of the city is bonded to my own. But since my awakening, now that I am also bonded to Nico, my connection to the city is muffled and unfocused. I should be able to feel them.”
“Because you’re the Oracle,” Geena said, and it wasn’t a question.
Volpe nodded thoughtfully. “They knew enough magic even when I banished them to hide their precise locations from me, but not their presence in the city. Perhaps now that Nico and I have begun to … accommodate each other, my rapport with the city will grow clearer.
“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 …”