The Immortal City Page 4

  Penelope was reaching for another memory of Aegean cults when her mobile rang.

  “Hello, this is Doctor—”

  “Penelope,” a hard voice interrupted her. Stuart Bryne’s Irish brogue was thick and angry, causing Penelope to cringe. “Where are you? Your mother has been calling your phone for two days.”

  “I’ve been traveling,” Penelope replied, trying to sound calm as her mind went from academic to scolded daughter. “I was going to give her a call tonight, but the time differences are off in Italy and—”

  “Italy! What the hell are you doing there? You were supposed to meet your mother in Wellington next week.”

  “I’m in Venice working with the police,” Penelope said with a burst of frustration. “Shopping in Wellington can wait.”

  “Working with the police?” Stuart Bryne’s voice didn’t lose any of its edge. “What’s happened, Pen? How could you possibly help them?”

  “A woman has been murdered, and it’s connected to my Tablet. You’ll never believe it but—”

  “That bloody Tablet has ruined your career, and still you’re pursuing it! Let it go, Pen. Separate yourself from this fairy tale once and for all, for your own sake.”

  “It’s my career to burn, Stuart, not yours. A woman is dead, and if I can help I will,” she said coldly, knowing that using his first name would annoy him. “Tell Mom I’ll speak to her soon.”

  Penelope hung up before she lost her temper and said something she couldn’t take back. She had inherited her anger from him, and she hated it about herself. She hated even more that he could still provoke that reaction from her. I’m thirty-five for fuck’s sake. Why can’t he treat me like it?

  Penelope tried to focus on the case for another ten minutes before giving up and putting on her jacket. Her concentration had been shot to hell, and she needed to walk it off. With any luck, it would exhaust her enough that she might get some sleep. She wasn’t about to try meditation again after yesterday. She couldn’t get the mystery man out of her head and had spent the previous evening staring at the ceiling. Walking was the next best thing.

  Penelope strolled casually up the Fondamenta Eremite, taking in the architecture around her and letting the bunched muscles in her shoulders relax. Despite the phone call from her father and the case, she was in Venice, and there were few cities in the world as beautiful as La Serenissima. She admired the facade of the Chiesa delle Eremite before crossing the small bridge over the Rio de le Romite.

  As Penelope walked, she thought of the murder and the script on the wall. She wasn’t a linguist, but ancient alphabets were familiar to her. Her father used to challenge her continually as a child, leaving messages written in Greek, Hebrew, and cuneiform. He had a brilliant child who unfortunately had a brilliant imagination to go with it. At an early age, Penelope had turned to the myth that fascinated her most—Atlantis—and she had been obsessed ever since.

  Penelope was walking past a bar on the Fondamenta Toletta when a tall man stepped out in front of her with an espresso in his hand. She collided hard with his chest and he only just managed to prevent spilling his coffee all over her.

  “Mi scusi signore,” she apologized quickly, blushing furiously.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, not a drop was spilled.” He looked down at her and smiled. He was striking in only the way an Italian man could be in bone-white trousers and a blue dress shirt. He had curling black hair and a charming white smile.

  “Posso offrirti una bevanda calda per sciogliere il ghiaccio?” he asked flirtatiously. Penelope picked up the offer of a drink and ice melting, but the rest of the pickup line was lost on her.

  “No thank you, maybe some other time,” she said politely as she moved around him. “Sorry again.” She continued her walk, an unexpected smile on her face.

  Penelope reached the end of the lane before her mind caught up and she stopped dead in her tracks.

  He had been wearing different clothes, and his eyes had been brown instead of blue, but the man from her meditation had just run straight into her. Penelope hurried back to the café but he was gone, only an empty espresso cup to show he’d been there at all.

  HAS IT FINALLY happened, Bryne? Have you finally gone crazy?” Carolyn asked from the other side of the world.

  “I haven’t left the hotel in two days, does that count?” Penelope replied from her position on the floor. She stared up at the photos of the Bull accusingly.

  “I still can’t get over the fact that you are in Italy. I mean, it takes a lot for you to do anything impulsive, Pen. When you do, it’s an epic runaway to Venice to solve crimes with a hot cop.”

  “What makes you think he is hot?” Penelope laughed.

  “I have Google, Pen. Marco Dandolo was hailed a hero two years ago when he rescued a child from a kidnapper. There are pictures. If he hasn’t gained thirty kilos and lost all of his hair since this picture was taken, then he is a hottie.”

  “Venice is filled with good-looking men. I bumped into one the other day, and he asked me out. The Italians do love to flirt.” A small part of Penelope wished her brain had been fast enough to realize he was the man from her meditation.

  “You are so clueless. Why are you hiding out in a city of beautiful men?”

  “I’m busy working. It’s driving me crazy. A year ago I would have died for a breakthrough like this. It’s my script! It’s all there so why can’t I decipher it?”

  “Maybe you are too close to it? I don’t know, Pen, you don’t exactly have a Rosetta Stone to help you out. This is a dead language we are talking about.”

  “But it’s not dead! It’s right here in front of me. Someone knows it and is using it. I don’t want to mess this up. We need to find the sicko who did this.”

  Carolyn let out a tired sigh. “Look, I know how much being awesome at everything means to you but cracking a language takes time. You don’t want to disappoint Inspector Hottie, so maybe you need to focus on the things you do know. Leave the stupid wall. Tell him what you are sure about while you figure out the rest.”

  Penelope sat up and pulled her notebook out from under the bed where it had fallen.

  “God, I hate it when you’re right,” she groaned.

  “You rang me for advice. You can’t complain about the quality of said advice,” Carolyn said. “By the way, you sound totally wired. Have you been keeping up with your meditations?”

  “Ha! After last time I’m too nervous to meditate,” replied Penelope.

  “What happened last time? Did you see something cool?”

  “Not really, just some Turkish corsair in a tower.” Penelope bit her lip. “I didn’t think he could see me, but then he talked to me. I freaked out.”

  “Woah! It sounds like you might have astral projected for the first time. Intense, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s anything to be afraid of though,” Carolyn replied enthusiastically. “I’ve spoken to plenty of people in meditations. The images can’t hurt you. And hey, you never know, maybe he has a message for you.”

  “Unless he has a message that includes this stupid wall, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Maybe you should ask him,” said Carolyn thoughtfully.

  “Sure thing. I just need to jump back into mediation land and say, ‘Hey, Hot Turkish corsair guy, come help a sister out by checking out my wall, and buy me a coffee while you are at it.’”

  “Pen, what’s wrong?”

  “Can I tell you something weird without you judging me?”

  “Depends on how weird it is. You just told me you met a dark, mysterious stranger in your head.”

  “I think I saw him in the street,” admitted Penelope. “The guy I bumped into, his eyes were different, but I swear it was him.”

  “And he didn’t recognize you?”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything. It sounds crazy.” Penelope let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Maybe it wasn’t an astral projection. Maybe it was like a premonition,” Carolyn
said seriously. “Maybe you were meant to meet him.”

  “Why would I need to meet some stranger? It doesn’t make sense.” Penelope tapped her pen on her notebook. “And if it was so I could meet him, I blew it and kept walking.”

  “If he’s important, you’ll see him again.”

  Penelope knew better than to argue with Carolyn about premonitions and déjà vu. “Look, Caro, I need to go. You’re right. I should put a report together for Marco.”

  “Take care of yourself, Bryne. I’ve got to admit I don’t have the greatest feeling about you being caught up in a case with a murdering nut bag.”

  Penelope promised to watch her back and hung up. After two days of staring at the photos, she needed to touch base with reality. She texted Marco, asking if he felt like dinner and a debriefing. She needed to get out of the hotel and away from the symbols for a bit, away from the dead eyes of the Bull which seemed to follow her around the room.

  The feeling that she had met the man from the meditation on the streets refused to go away, however. Dinner was three hours away; she had time for more meditation. Better that you make the first move than leave it to him.

  Penelope showered and dressed in her favorite black jeans and red sweater while debating whether or not to follow Carolyn’s suggestion and ask the man flat out who he was or if he had a message for her. Her hands trembled as she applied her makeup, a sure sign that her anxiety was ramping up.

  Giving in, Penelope sat down on her bed and shut her eyes. Instead of focusing on a word, she focused on the man, pulling up details of his face and voice. She was about to give up when she felt a small tug inside of her chest like an invisible line had straightened, and she was suddenly sitting in a café under a large cream umbrella, the man sitting opposite her.

  He pushed a small cup of espresso across the table toward her. “I was waiting to see if you would turn up again.” He wore a cream suit and a shirt the same gray-blue as the sea in front of them. His dark curls were tied back in a stylishly lazy bun.

  Penelope could smell the sharp sea air, the hot, fragrant coffee, and her companion’s aftershave; a curious, alluring combination that reminded her of firecrackers, cinnamon, and sandalwood.

  “Is this real?” she asked, her mouth dry. Being pulled out of her hotel room had left her dizzy.

  “As in are we physically at a café right now? No. This is a space created so we can talk,” he replied.

  “Created by who?” Penelope glanced around at the tourists taking photos and the waiters serving food. It seemed so real.

  “By me, of course. I thought this would be more suitable than my tower.” He sipped his coffee, watching her curiously with his violently blue eyes. “I thought it would be obvious considering it’s my meditation you keep interrupting.”

  “Your meditation! You are interrupting mine,” she protested. She touched the side of her espresso, the heat seeping through the porcelain and into her skin. Impossible. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. My friend said to ask if you had a message for me. She is more used to this kind of thing happening.”

  Something in his mocking expression softened. “Be careful what you dig into. You will only find death on the other side of it.”

  Penelope looked down at the slender, brown hand that had come to rest over hers. “If we aren’t really here, how come I can feel you?”

  “This is my space. I want you to feel it when I touch you.”

  “Are you a real person? Here in Venice?”

  “Does it matter?” His fingers drifted up her forearm, gently stroking. “How do you have the ability to break into a magician’s mind, Penelope?”

  “Magician?” Penelope jumped as his hand tightened unexpectedly, pinning it to the table. “What are you talking about? And how do you know my name?”

  “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you? Regardless, I will find out where you got your abilities,” he promised seriously. “I will find out what you really are.”

  “No, you won’t.” She yanked her hand out of his grasp, and before he could stop her, she forced herself awake.

  Her eyes opened, and the room spun around her. She looked down at her arm. There was no mark from where he had held her, only the faint smell of spice and firecrackers lingering on her skin.

  “I WAS happy to get your message,” Marco said an hour later as they walked through the narrow streets. “I was starting to think I was going to have to drag you away from that wall myself.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, I haven’t cracked the language, but I thought you deserved an update so you know I’m not wasting your time,” Penelope said, pushing her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. The sun hadn’t quite set, and all of Venice was filled with a misty orange light. Despite the cold sea breeze and her bad mood, it was devastatingly beautiful.

  “You don’t strike me as a time waster, Doctor Bryne,” answered Marco. “I don’t expect you to solve this case on your own, only give insight into what you can. We both have our areas of expertise. I’m trying to keep you out of the routine police work, so you have space to focus on the rest.”

  “You are remarkably understanding, Inspector Dandolo,” she said.

  He laughed loudly. “Can I get that in writing so I can email it to all of my ex-girlfriends?”

  They found a small restaurant and sat at a table away from other customers so details of the case wouldn’t be overheard.

  “I’ve written you a report that I’ll email to you,” Penelope explained as Marco poured her red wine.

  “Tell me about our killer, in your own words, not a report. I hate reports. I want to understand your thoughts and process.”

  “Okay, the killer is obsessed to an extreme level,” she began, toying with the stem of her glass. “Not a Christian in any religious sense. He is a practitioner of a religion as dead as the language he was writing in.”

  “What religion?” Marco asked.

  Penelope swallowed a mouthful of wine, hoping it would give her courage. “Do you believe in demons, Inspector?” She expected him to laugh in her face, but instead, his expression darkened.

  “Yes. I’m a Catholic and if angels and saints can influence people, why not devils and demons? I’ve certainly seen enough in my time to convince me that both are real.”

  “Have you ever heard of the name Thevetat?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “I should point out there’s no real academic evidence for what I’m about to say but try and keep an open mind. A lot of what people know of Atlantis is pure myth. There are stories about information being channeled through spiritual mediums like Helena Blavatsky, who wrote how Atlanteans lived before the cataclysm and what happened to them afterward. One of the theories is that worshippers of a powerful demon called Thevetat arose within their society. Magicians, or good priests, whichever you prefer, stood against them but ultimately the power struggle led to the destruction of Atlantis. There are stories of survivors coming to the other continents, and I suppose that would mean the good with the bad.”

  “And you think our killer believes some of this?” Marco asked.

  “From what I can tell he’s worshipping Thevetat or trying to. I can’t figure out if he’s part of a cult, or if he was simply taken in by the theories and decided to do it on his own. It might not be academically sound, but it’s true to him.”

  A waiter arrived before Marco had a chance to reply and Penelope tried not to fall on her risotto al nero di seppie. She had been living off coffee, toast, and biscotti for the last two days and her stomach knew it. The wine was warming her and helping her to relax. Marco still hadn’t called her crazy, so she took it as a good sign.

  “Do you think our killer has friends?” he asked.

  “From the way the body was positioned, he either had to have a helper, or he’s freakishly strong. The victim had given birth less than a week beforehand. She wasn’t exactly petite.”

  “What about the murder itself
? Do you think it was a ritual to this Thevetat?”

  “Most definitely, though the connection it had with the water makes me think it was more than a common practice ritual. It’s something…special. It has intent, but…” Penelope hesitated, unable to say the words.

  “It’s a spell,” Marco finished. “They are doing la magia.”

  “I’m sure the killer believes he is. What he thinks the magic can do I won’t know until I crack the language. There are so many symbols to Poseidon, which almost makes it seem like a petition from demon god to sea god.” Penelope shook her head. “I know it sounds completely cracked.”

  “It does but as you say, it makes sense to the killer,” Marco replied. “Now, for the harder question: do you think he’s likely to kill again?”

  “I have a hunch that he will, but I’m no police officer for that to be reliable. The murder was shamelessly bold, a spectacle. Nothing about it was random. It was carefully planned in every detail.”

  “I’ll keep looking into the woman and see if I can find any connection that might be suitable for a motive. Her father is a very well-connected man so it might lead to more speculation. Who knows what these rich people are into.”

  They talked for another hour and were waiting for their coffee to arrive when Marco’s phone rang.

  “I have to go back to work,” he complained. “The Questore wants a progress report in person. He’s too lazy to read them.”

  “Sounds like you,” Penelope teased. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, no. Stay and enjoy your night. We shouldn’t both have to suffer from more after-hours work.”

  “I’m more than happy to stay here and eat your zaeti.” Penelope grinned. She loved the raisin and polenta cookies.

  “Va bene. You have good taste, like a Venetian.” He smiled back at her approvingly. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and check in. Don’t hide for days at a time, Dottore, it’s not healthy. Do you know your way back to the hotel?”