“Not at all,” Aretino said. “Actually, we’re going to release you. You will have until dawn to bring Volpe to us, or we will kill the city.”
“You’re bluffing,” she said, heart missing a beat. “You love this city. You’d never—”
“We do love the city,” Aretino said, and Foscari leaned in close behind her again, his hands slipping around to her breasts, wet mouth against her neck.
“But only because it is home to us, to our family, going back fifteen hundred years,” Foscari said. “The rest of the people of Venice mean nothing to us. Once they’re dead and gone, we’d still have the city itself. Scoured clean. Simple enough to start anew.”
“But we don’t wish for that,” Aretino said. There was a hint of reprimand in his voice, and Foscari moved back. Geena wanted to wipe the places where he had touched, but she crossed her arms instead.
“I’ll do it,” she said, looking at the clay urn. She did not have to feign her fear, nor her disgust at the choice they had given her. “But I can’t bring him here. He’d never believe that I’d found this place on my own.”
“We don’t want you to bring him here,” Aretino said. “You’ll bring him to the Chamber of Ten. At dawn, we will meet there, and there will be an end to this.”
Geena pretended to think on this, looking down at the Doge’s feet, frowning. If Aretino had not suggested the Chamber of Ten, she would have done it herself. It could work to her advantage, if she was very persuasive and very lucky. Will there be time … will Volpe listen … will he believe me … And did Domenic do as I asked?
“The Chamber of Ten,” she said softly. “Why there?”
“You think yourself so clever,” Foscari said. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out.”
“The Chamber,” Aretino said, eyes widening, smile growing, and a small ripple of doubt went through Geena. Have I really done the right thing? But it was too late to back out now. “The Chamber, by dawn.”
Behind her, Geena heard Foscari’s breath growing more rapid. She stared at Aretino without blinking. He nodded slowly, then drew a small shape in the air before her with his unnaturally long index finger. The shape seemed to hang suspended for a few seconds, like a smoke ring that slowly dissipated. She blinked, swayed a little, frowned.
“Away from here,” Aretino said to her at last. “Quickly. But if there is any deceit on your part, any schemes, think better of it. We have been alive—truly alive, woman—for long enough to outsmart anything your feeble mind might conjure. And Foscari’s attentions will be only your first punishment.”
Dismissed, Geena had no desire to linger a moment longer. She turned and pushed past Foscari, up the stairs and through the room holding the priceless treasures. Denying the temptation to stop and examine them, she climbed the next staircase to the bare room above. She still felt strange, and it was only when she exited the building onto the canal path that she began to realize what was wrong. But by then she could not stop. She walked without appreciating direction, passing through alleys she instantly forgot, crossing bridges she thought she had never seen before and would never be able to identify. Direction meant nothing, and struggle though she did, she could not construct a map of where she was or where she had been in her mind. She paused and turned around, going back the way she had come, but every square, courtyard, alley, and canalside walk was unknown to her, all of them blending into one.
So she kept walking through the night until the time came when she no longer tried to recall where she had been, but rather craved something familiar.
The first touch of Nico’s mind on hers made her cry out with joy.
When Nico regained consciousness, he was surrounded by the dead. The room, lit by several weak candles that all seemed to be sputtering their last, was filled with skeletons. They were piled on shelves carved into the walls, one on top of the other like firewood stacked against the winter. They were propped in alcoves several deep, held in place like collected insects by long pikes driven through rib cages; he could not tell whether they’d been pinned there before or after death. In one far corner there was a pile of skulls, and all of them bore signs of trauma to their pale domes. Other bones scattered the floor, tangled with shreds of rotten clothing. Candlelight shifted here and there, and the shadows cast into skulls’ eyes blinked at him, arm bones moved, and clawed fingers clasped at the floor as they tried to pull themselves closer.
None of that shocked him. What did shock him was the weight in his chest. It felt as though his heart had been ripped out—
—Il Conte hacking away, breaking, reaching in—
—and replaced with a lead weight. When he breathed he hardly felt his chest move, and his lungs were burning.
What has he done to me now? Nico thought, and he wondered how many of these skeletons were made by Volpe’s bidding.
I’ve healed you, fool, Volpe’s voice said.
Nico looked down at his chest. He was shirtless, and the place where he’d been shot—just to the left of his sternum, an inch higher than his nipple—was a mass of heavy purple, green, and yellow bruising. He touched himself there with his right hand, running his fingertips across his puffy skin in search of the bullet hole. But it was not there.
A hair’s breadth closer to your heart and you would have bled to death, Volpe said.
“And you?” But the old magician did not answer that. “So where are we?” Nico asked, but already the memories were coming back at him, punching in with each fresh revelation—Ramus’ death, Foscari shooting him gleefully in the chest, Geena being taken by that bastard Aretino—and Volpe did not answer straightaway.
It was easier to cure the wound when you were unconscious. Magic’s influence can be … indelicate sometimes. And the heart is most delicate. It took a while, but you’re well now. I’m well. Now we both need rest.
“But they took Geena,” Nico said.
They won’t hurt her. Not yet.
“How can you be sure?”
Because they want me, and you and I are inextricably bound.
“So they’ll use her as bait,” Nico said coldly.
Of course.
“You sound tired,” Nico said, and Volpe did not reply. He was still there—Nico could feel him, looming in his mind like a shadow in blazing sunlight—but he was musing, his silence loaded with something important.
Nico sighed and closed his eyes. This would have been a great find for any archaeologist, and some vague part of him hoped that he’d discover where they were and remember it. But such considerations seemed like part of a life he no longer knew. Here he was surrounded by bones bearing evidence of violent deaths, and he felt calm. Not quite at home, but settled. He breathed in deeply and smelled dust.
You sought memories that were not your own, Volpe thought. Nico had never heard such caution in that voice. You … forced your way in.
Nico opened his eyes and sat up. He had full control of his body, and he looked around to confirm that, lifting one hand, then the other. He felt righteous rage building inside him, and knew that Volpe would feel it as well. He stood. The chamber’s ceiling was low and brushed his head, and whilst standing he seemed to look down on all the bones and skulls, viewing them as if from the position of a conquering warrior.
Those were not your things to know, Volpe continued. Magic is a dangerous thing, and does not bestow itself upon just anyone. There was a hesitancy to his voice now, and Nico was enjoying the feeling of subtle power it gave him. Volpe did not sound afraid, not quite … but the things Nico had seen were obviously precious to him. The memories were still clear, though disjointed.