‘Are those your words or hers?’ he said coldly.
‘I’m paraphrasing, but she’s pissed.’
‘She’ll recover.’ Luca idly picked up the sugar shaker on the next table.
Zach wiped his hands on his cassock and resumed. ‘She fears your lack of focus and your continued attempts to take your own revenge on Caravaggio. She wants it to stop. She needs you to focus on the endgame.’
Luca set the sugar shaker ablaze and fast-pitched it at Zach, who ducked. The molten glass and sugar shattered on the wall behind Zach’s head. Zach’s hand twitched, a pinpoint of light barely visible in his palm.
‘There are new orders,’ he signed. ‘She wants to see you.’ Zach’s expression was etched with disgust and hate, but for Luca or himself, Luca couldn’t tell.
Luca reached across the table, picked Zach up and pinned him like an insect against the wall. His hands slowly tightened.
‘You can’t kill me,’ choked Zach, his neck reddening, his face contorting in pain, his fingers fierce in their movements.
‘Your impertinence galls me,’ Luca murmured. ‘The Camarilla will have another Animare replacing you in an hour. You’re not the only one hell-bent on wealth and fame.’
‘If you kill me,’ mouthed Zach, gasping for air, his hands fighting to loosen the Nephilim’s grip, ‘you’ll never see Sebina again.’
19.
Something to Believe In
‘Sebina’s alive?’ The young man’s skin blistered under Luca’s fingers. ‘Impossible. I witnessed her execution.’
Zach choked and gasped.
‘You witnessed an animation,’ he signed, trying to get away. ‘Just an animation. Sebina never climbed into the bull.’
It was too much to believe. To hope. Luca kept pressing. ‘Where is she now?’
Zach bicycled his legs frantically. He got his fingers under his cassock and tugged out a gold bloodstone brooch. Held it up for Luca to see. Luca stared. The brooch had belonged to the Duke of Albion, who had helped Caravaggio escape from Rome. But Sebina had found it, worn it. Loved it.
‘Sebina,’ he breathed.
His shock was transforming him slowly from mortal to angel. His wings tugged at his human musculature. His girth broadened, tearing open his T-shirt, his transformation sucking oxygen from the small café. Thatcher collapsed behind the counter, pulling a tray of pastries on top of his head. Customers lay with their heads on their plates. One of the pastry chefs crawled beneath the swinging door into the kitchen, clawing at his throat.
Luca’s wings burst out behind him, filling the small café. He felt Zach’s life slipping away beneath his long-tapered fingers. It was sheer force of will that stopped him killing him. Tilting his head back, he exhaled long and slow, sending out a coil of chill breath that spread like a mushroom cloud across the ceiling. Decision made, he let Zach slip to the floor.
In seconds, cool air filled the café again. Customers shifted and groaned. In a swift, elegant movement, Luca’s silver-tipped black wings folded into his broad back and vanished, leaving two small stains of blood beneath his shoulder blades.
He helped Thatcher to his feet. Poured two cups of coffee and a glass of iced water, then sorted a plate of pastries before returning to the table. The din in the shop slowly amplified. Business resumed.
Dazed but upright, Zach flopped into a chair.
‘What do you want from me?’ Luca asked, sipping his coffee.
‘It’s complicated and dangerous.’
‘As am I.’
20.
The Real Deal
Zach walked quickly from the coffee shop to the river where he sat on a bench at a bus stop, rubbing at the blisters on his neck, remembering the terrifying moment when he had been pinned to the café wall, gasping what he believed to be a last breath.
If he was going to survive this mission, he needed to repress his feelings. It had been difficult enough when he’d crossed paths with Em, the only person he’d ever truly loved, in Chicago, and his heart had been broken all over again. But now, so much more was at stake. Not just Em’s future. Everyone’s.
He’d managed to get under Luca’s skin, but could he be trusted to keep his word? Time would tell. No doubt he had pissed Luca off at the coffee shop, pushed him to the edge. But like Luca, Zach’s choices were limited too. The risk had to be taken.
It’s done.
Zach tapped the words into an encrypted phone.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
And?
And we have his attention. He accepted our deal.
Zach closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. Straightening his dusty cassock, he walked towards the Museum of Antiquities on Tiber Island.
21.
Somebody to Love
The young man’s deal had stirred something long buried in Luca. Longing, or remembering – or love. The one human emotion he’d allowed to flourish until Sebina had been taken from him. Or perhaps he’d just had too many angel wings, and too much coffee.
He strolled back to his townhouse with its great medieval front door facing the river, unlocked the smaller door cut into its centre and ducked inside. Once a glorious courtyard filled with statues of Roman warriors and a fountain of Oceanus taming the waters of Rome – a fountain that Nicola Salvi had once glimpsed and copied for his iconic Trevi Fountain – the space was now unkempt and overgrown. Thick brush and long weeds reached for sunlight from the cracks and crevices of the paving stones, and wild bougainvillea looked like blood-splattered frescoes against the brick walls.
Down in the cellar, the wooden shelves were depleted of wine and the barrels that had once stood from floor to ceiling full of ale had been drained and repurposed centuries ago. In one arched corner, Luca pressed the palms of his hands against the bricked-up outline of a door. The wall crumbled like chalk under his touch. He dug out the rubble, pleased to see the tiled tunnel was dry. Then he climbed through the hole and hunched his shoulders, walking for a few metres until he was sure the tunnel would lead to the place where it all had begun, and – if the young man was to be trusted – where it would end. Satisfied, he returned to the cellar, where he took apart one of the wine shelves and set the thick planks of wood against the opening.
Back outside, Luca crossed the street. In a moment of hubris, he unfolded his wings and glided down the steps and on to the embankment path on the right bank of the river, where he found a bench and stretched out across it, turning his face to the sky. He’d spent so long in darkness mourning Sebina that the light and space of it seemed an extraordinary thing. His grief was stripped to its essence, but his anger was thicker, harder, more volatile than ever.
Luca’s original plan had been to let his father create his Second Kingdom and then destroy it at a time of his own choosing, make him and his followers pay for killing Sebina. It would be amusing, to see the humans scuttle about the Watchers like obedient rats, and even more amusing to see his father’s reaction at such a betrayal so late in the day. But this new arrangement was giving him pause. Perhaps the Camarilla wasn’t as watertight as they thought. And Sebina…
It seemed there was a better way after all.
A homeless woman on the grassy knoll above the path gave Luca the stink eye, spitting a ream of angry words at him, holding her fingers in a sign of the cross. Ah, she’d seen his wings. Luca ignored her, focusing on the implications of what he’d learned, what he was being asked to do.
The river was empty of any traffic, flowing fast around the curve before it split into two tributaries around Tiber Island. The last time Luca had held Sebina, it had been on the river not far from this spot. The night Caravaggio had escaped their clutches, the night Luca should have torn the bastard into pieces instead of leaving him to drown in the rat-infested shallows.
Nearby, the homeless woman was reciting the rosary, tiny beads flitting through her fingers like sand. It amused Luca when humans spotted him and believed he was evil. He was, if anything, open to all opti
ons. That was the beauty of him.
Clasping his hands behind his head, he stared at the white-hot sun in the shockingly blue sky. An Airbus 380 banked overhead in preparation for its final descent into Leonardo da Vinci – Fiumicino Airport. Luca was fascinated with aircraft of all shapes and sizes, the bigger the better. Their power intoxicated him. Their aesthetic thrilled him.
He smiled at the white fumes brushing across the blue. In his divine form, his presence left the same marks on the atmosphere. In centuries past, his contrails had raised concern, even sparked a little crazy among those who spotted them, but thanks to the Wright brothers and Boeing, these days Luca could fly over the world almost in plain sight.
The homeless woman stirred herself and trundled away, spitting on the silver-capped toes of his boots. Luca instinctively raised his hand to set her possessions on fire, but then changed his mind. Love, he thought. The feeling was familiar, but alien at the same time. A complicated emotion.
Absently, he rained a handful of coins into the homeless woman’s cart. She let out a terrified yelp and scuttled away. He sat up and wiped her phlegm from his boot.
22.
Possession
Cecilia Ciardi stood on the terrace of the Garden of Oranges on the Aventine Hill, inhaling the spectacular view from one of Rome’s highest vantage points. She had visited the garden every morning since her return to the city a week ago. Behind her stood the remains of a rectangular stone edifice, the Temple of Juno. The famous hills of Rome stretched ahead, the panorama breath-taking. On the Palatine Hill, the ruins of the Forum were like bones bursting through the lush green ground. Cecilia extended her arms towards the city as if accepting its laurels and accolades.
She checked her Bulgari with the simple mother-of-pearl face and brown strap in which she’d punched an extra hole. Her grandfather had always said the watch was like her: steadfast, resilient, beautiful – an Italian classic. She was late for a board meeting to discuss the weekend’s gala. She thought about calling her driver and having him bring the car round, but changed her mind. Hiking up her white linen maxi dress, she retrieved a leather portfolio and her handbag from the bench and walked briskly downhill towards the river and the Museum of Antiquities on Tiber Island, where she kept her offices.
The streets were crowded with happy worshippers heading towards St Peter’s Square for an open-air mass. She threaded through the crowd with a smile in her eyes and a song on her lips. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the warm sun on her face and a light summer breeze on her legs. She almost skipped.
Until recently, Cecilia had had a successful career as a fashion model. But on hearing of her grandfather’s death, she’d walked off a runway in Paris and disappeared for two months. The press had a feeding frenzy on the crumbs of information her inner circle dropped for them. She was in mourning. She was taking over the family business. She was on a pilgrimage. She was healing. She was, and she was.
When she returned to Rome, her inner circle saw a changed woman. Healthier, with more gravitas, but more ambitious too. Two nights earlier, she had announced from the portico of the Museum of Antiquities that her family’s sacred artefacts from centuries of collecting would go on display for the first time ever, the opening to be celebrated with a spectacular concert performance of ‘Black Orpheus’ two days from now in St Peter’s Square. The announcement had caused a sensation not only because secular concerts in the sacred square were rare, but also rumours were swirling that a world-famous performer was coming out of retirement to play Eurydice. Every media outlet, online and old school, scheduled to stream it.
Cecilia was midway across the Ponte Garibaldi when a white Transit van seemed to speed deliberately towards her. A blue Vespa shot out from behind the van, sending it swerving into oncoming traffic. Brakes screeched. Horns blared. The Vespa veered in front of a trundling bus, jumped up on to the curb and skidded to a halt in front of Cecilia.
Every person on the bridge went into flight mode, apart from Cecilia, who fell back against the wall, clutching the portfolio close. The traffic sped up, carrying vehicles as fast as the two narrow lanes allowed. A few passengers hung out of windows, fists raised. Regaining control, the Transit van shot the lights at the far end of the bridge and disappeared.
The Vespa driver shut off her bike and raised her hands apologetically in the air. ‘Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!’ She took off her helmet, her short blonde hair plastered against her head. Dressed in a flowery sundress and calf-high biker boots, she clasped her hands in front of her face apologetically.
‘I thought they were going to get you,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’
Cecilia blinked a couple of times against the setting sun. ‘I’m fine,’ she finally said in English, wincing from a pain shooting from her ankle to her knee.
‘They looked like they were going to run you down. Do you need a lift?’
Cecilia brushed off her dress, then looked to the end of the bridge. The van was long gone.
‘Grazie, Sol,’ she said. ‘I accept your offer of a ride.’
Sol passed her helmet to Cecilia and insisted she wear it. Cecilia tucked the portfolio under her arm and then wrapped her thin arms round Sol’s waist, caressing a piece of her dress fabric between her fingers. ‘Prada?’
‘Si.’
‘Molto bella.’
Sol bounced the scooter over the curb, shooting it like a missile back into traffic. A passing wing mirror smacked against Cecilia’s arm as Sol made a U-turn into the opposite lane, barely avoiding another head-on collision. She turned south at high speed on to the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, forgetting that at this part of the city traffic ran north. Rows of traffic hurtled towards them, blasting away like cavalry at war.
‘Oh shit. Hold on!’
Cecilia tightened her grip. ‘One piece, Sol,’ she said. ‘I need to get there in one piece!’
Sol shifted gears and prepared to cut on to the grassy verge when suddenly – inexplicably – the traffic parted like the Red Sea. Sol shot down the middle. At the next intersection, the same thing happened, allowing Sol to navigate the Vespa back towards the island.
Cecilia leaned close to Sol’s ear. ‘I think you’ve got a bit of the devil in you.’
23.
Out of Time
Twenty minutes later, Cecilia marched irritably along a line of sculpted hedges and blossoming bougainvillea framing the grounds of the museum, adjusting the leather portfolio under her arm. Her dress was torn at the bottom where her hem had snagged on the scooter’s kick-stand, serving to worsen her mood. The Museum of Antiquities was housed in the Castello Caetani on the west side of Tiber Island, a landmass shaped like a ship in the middle of the river. The island had protected Roman citizens when their city was under siege from war and from plagues. Her knee was twingeing, but not enough to worry about. The pain reminded her she was alive.
Her private rooms had tall rectangular windows on three sides. Like a series of altar panels, the windows were positioned precisely to display the ruins of the Forum, the magnificent Arch of Constantine and the external bones of the Colosseum. Modern Rome was cut off, outside the frames of the windows.
Cecilia ducked slightly beneath a stone temple arch incorporated into the door – she was considerably taller than her female ancestors – and tossed the portfolio on her desk. The suite was furnished like a salon with a cluster of grey and cream Nutuzzi chairs like giant cupped hands in front of a modern glass desk. Low shelf units in black Cyprus crisscrossed the room. Roman statues of Jupiter, Minerva and Mars stood facing each other from different corners in the room; each one thought to have been destroyed centuries ago.
Cecilia had designed the space to resemble a gallery tucked inside an Italian villa, and she’d succeeded. Every artefact, bust, statue and reliquary from her family’s collection had been positioned with care by her own hands; hands which she now clasped in front of her. She beckoned with a tilt of her head the two men in black suits and crisp white shirts waitin
g on the other side of the room.
‘Someone tried to kill me this afternoon,’ she told them. ‘On the bridge. A white van. In my town. The nerve of it defies belief.’
‘We know,’ said the older of the two men. ‘Sol has already informed us.’
His eyes were bloodshot and he’d been biting the skin around his fingernails while he waited. He should be nervous, Cecilia thought. He should be terrified.
The younger man cleared his throat. Cecilia smiled at him. He had been recommended by Sol who she trusted more than anyone else in her life at this moment. Corralling Luca Ferrante, giving him her message; that had not been an easy thing to do.
Zach Butler was quickly making himself indispensable. Uninvolved and unattainable, his bold choice of celibacy had initially raised her suspicions, but Zach was a technological wizard, and Cecilia appreciated the ways he had updated her network and tightened the security on the museum’s treasures. His body was lithe and lean, his good looks underscored with a simmering anger. She liked that about him too. Anger was much more malleable than acceptance.
The older man held his hands in front of his chest like a penitent about to take communion.
‘Are you sure you want to pursue this path before the concert?’ he asked. ‘It seems needlessly risky. Why call attention to us more than necessary?’
‘Are you questioning my authority, Victor?’
‘Of course not,’ Victor Moretti said, bowing his head. ‘It’s just that I fear—’
‘What do you fear?’ Cecilia inquired, stepping closer to him. ‘That the Camarilla have not made you rich enough? That we have not given you enough power? That your children have not visited enough countries yet?’