The Immortal City Read online

  Francesco laughed loudly over the roar of the engines, and Penelope wished the gray-blue water of the lagoon would rise up and swallow her whole.

  MARCO KNEW there was going to be trouble the moment he saw the tall blonde step onto the beach. She was dressed in a neat blue suit with a pressed white shirt. She was in plain clothes, but there was no mistaking what she was. It was in her walk, the way she held herself above everyone else. Marco groaned inwardly. DIGOS.

  Marco went to approach her, but she detoured around the crowd and headed straight for the body. He arrived just as she looked at the face of the dead man.

  “Vaffanculo,” she hissed.

  “Scusi Signora—”

  “Agent Bianchi,” she cut him off, still studying the body, brown eyes taking in every detail.

  “May I ask what you are doing at my crime scene, apart from contaminating it?” he demanded. It must’ve been the tone that made her finally stop and look at him. Her eyes made an equally scathing assessment of him.

  “I was led to believe that the scene had already been contaminated by your consultant,” she countered smoothly. “Did you ever stop to think that a civilian would need a debriefing after being exposed to the first body, let alone this one?”

  “She was cleared to assist by Adalfieri.”

  “So was I. I’ll be with you on this case until it is over.”

  “Why are you stepping in now? How does it even involve DIGOS?”

  Agent Bianchi handed him her phone where a photo glowed. It was of a young man, handsome and having fun with a group of friends. “Look familiar?”

  Marco looked up at the body. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Juliano. He was in Venice working as an engineering assistant with his father.”

  “Let me guess, the MOSE project?”

  “Bravo.” Agent Bianchi pocketed her phone. “We believe a group is targeting MOSE to stop its launch. Tony Duilio is in Venice and is stirring up protestors too, making publicity difficult. This killer means to spread terror, and we need to stop him before anyone else dies.”

  Marco had heard of Duilio. He was an upstart entrepreneur with a genius mind for engineering. His company was creating floating resorts in the Bahamas and had pitched an alternative project to the City of Venezia. Duilio had wanted to raise the city, suspending the buildings on cables that could be lengthened as the ocean rose. He had been the loudest and most public protestor on the MOSE, claiming it was a waste of funds for a Band-Aid job. When the oceans rose due to global warming, the MOSE gates would be useless.

  “Penelope—Doctor Bryne—believes they are cult killings,” said Marco.

  “Or they just want to make them as scandalous and sacrilegious as possible to incite more fear into people.” Agent Bianchi walked around the body, her face stony. “She was allowed onto this case as a consultant with no background checks or the proper clearance. She hasn’t had any success deciphering the language because it’s fake. I read her report, and I’m surprised a seasoned inspector like yourself bought into ridiculous theories about Atlantean scripts and cults to dead gods.”

  “Her theories aren’t ridiculous. She’s qualified in areas we aren’t, and that includes giving us valuable insight into the murderer’s motivations. Whether they’re killing to stir up MOSE supporters doesn’t matter. There’s enough evidence to prove they believe in this demon god.”

  “I don’t care about their beliefs,” she said, her ponytail flicking over her shoulder as she stood. “I only want them caught. Help me, Inspector, or stay out of my way.”

  PENELOPE WAS caught in a world of heat and confused consciousness. In her hotel room, she thrashed in her sheets, sweating and shaking in the grips of a fever.

  With the fever came the dreams. In them Penelope twisted in a pale blue ribbon of light, drowning in salty blackness. Flashes of golden hair caught her eyes, along with curious symbols on a robe. She woke sporadically, the smell of spicy gunpowder mixed with something sweet in her nose.

  And those were just the dreams that didn’t involve her reliving the fate of the murder victims, slowly suffocating as a bloody mask was pulled down over her head, combined with the knowledge that she was dying and leaving her baby without her mother. Her fear was real and raw as she was forced into a rib cage, the burning eyes of a god watching from above as it constructed a prison of bone and driftwood around her.

  She screamed then; a name she could never remember. Waking, she expected to see someone in the room with her, but she was always alone.

  “Where are you?” Penelope whispered, expecting a reply. She touched a place in the middle of her chest, searching for something she felt should be attached there. “Who are you?”

  “Penelope?” Marco’s voice came through the door before it opened. No, it wasn’t him she was looking for. Her heart slowed as she lay back down.

  “Hey,” she managed, pushing her hair back from her damp forehead.

  “You look like death,” he said as he placed a brown takeaway bag on the bedside table. “I brought you some soup, as promised.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about today.”

  “Don’t be. It was going to be a bad day with or without you there,” he replied as he moved a chair beside her bed and sat down.

  “I hope you brought me a case file and not just food,” she said.

  He made a face and took a folder out of his satchel, placing it on her desk. “I shouldn’t give you these in your current state, but I’m a man of my word. Please don’t look at them until you feel better. We have more than enough people working this case for the time being.”

  “What else has happened? You look…angry.” Penelope didn’t know if it was the fever still, but he seemed to have a frustrated crimson and gray light buzzing around him.

  “DIGOS happened. There’s an agent that they’re going to force me to work with, and she doesn’t think much of us so far.”

  “You mean she doesn’t think much of me,” Penelope stated.

  “She doesn’t know you. She thinks this killer is a part of a group that wants to terrorize people involved with MOSE. Some plot to try and stop it from coming online,” Marco explained. He folded his arms. “She’s ignorant and believes it’s so clear-cut. You and I know otherwise.”

  “You still believe me? Even after the demon worship conversation?”

  “Of course. Faith is an extremely powerful thing, and I don’t think we’ll be able to figure this out without you.” He fidgeted slightly. “But Adalfieri has agreed with Agent Bianchi that you aren’t allowed onto the crime scenes anymore, at least until the body has been removed. I’ve brought you photos, and they have said you can keep consulting, but you aren’t allowed to be involved so directly.”

  “And you agree with them?”

  “Not so much, but I do know that if this killer is connected enough to know who has been directly involved with MOSE and their families, then I don’t want you being caught in any crossfire. You’re an academic, not police.”

  “If he’s that well-connected, then he already knows I’m involved.” Penelope rubbed a hand along her left ribs, something itchy under her skin.

  “Perhaps.” Marco frowned. “But you need to get well. That should be your only priority for the next few days. Have a look at the photos when you are more clearheaded and tell me what you think.”

  “Will you put them on the wall for me?” she asked, pointing at the blank space on the other side of a bay of windows.

  Marco sighed. “The Stallion of San Michele is as horrible as the Bull. Do you really want to be surrounded by so much death when you are running a fever?”

  “Perhaps I’ll gain insight in my hallucinatory state,” she joked and hoped it wasn’t too horrific. Black magic is bad for you, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. She shook her head.

  “Fine! But if you end up going crazy, you can’t sue me.”

  “I promise.” She laughed weakly.

  They
talked easily, Marco telling her all about the arrogant DIGOS agent while he pinned the photos to the wall in order. Penelope’s brain fired as she watched the retaining wall from San Michele take shape. Something was needling her, something new she had learned about magic.

  “It’s another spell,” she said, sitting up slowly. “And I’m certain that it’s about Thevetat. San Michele wasn’t a random place to select.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thevetat was a death cult. San Michele is an island of bones and ghosts.” Penelope licked her lips and forced herself to say, “I think they believe they are doing magic and this’s another part of a spell.”

  “And because it’s a death cult, being at a cemetery the spell would be more powerful?” Marco guessed. She smiled, loving how quick he was.

  “Exactly, and the fact that he used a horse instead of a bull this time confirms the petition to Poseidon,” Penelope replied. “He’s upping his game, or maybe a second layer to the same spell? Argh, I wish my head wasn’t so fuzzy. I feel like the answer is at the tip of a tongue I don’t have.”

  Marco chuckled softly as he picked up his coat. “It’ll come to you. Eat and rest. I’ll keep you posted if we learn anything else.”

  “Marco? One other thing. I’ve been thinking about the meat.”

  “The meat? What do you mean?”

  “First, parts of a bull and now a horse carcass? Those aren’t cuts you can buy just anywhere.”

  “We’ve been looking into meat suppliers and butcher shops in Venice—”

  “No, you need to look further afield.” Penelope sat up, holding her pounding head as she tried to focus. “For these kinds of sacrifices, you wouldn’t go to any old butcher. Animals used in sacrifice were special. Top grade, like prize bulls, the finest stallions. You wouldn’t offer up any old nag if you were trying to get favors out of the gods.”

  “So maybe check with the farmers on the mainland?” Marco thought aloud. “There are quite a few within an hour of here.”

  “It would be a good place to start. He would’ve had to have killed it somewhere else and transported it to the city. Too many people would notice a live bull on a boat around Santa Croce.”

  “I’ll make some calls and see what I can dig up. You really need to get some sleep and feel better. Let the polizia worry about things for a few days.”

  “Thank you for the soup and for defending me to Agent Bianchi,” Penelope said.

  “I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years, and something tells me we won’t be able to solve this without you.” He flashed her a smile. “I’ll make sure Louisa checks in on you.”

  “It’s just the stomach flu, I’ll get over it,” Penelope said as he shut the door. She got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to pee and wash her face. Her clothes from the night before sat on the floor in a pile where she had left them that morning.

  What had happened to her?

  She searched the pocket of her jeans and found a crumpled business card of the restaurant where they’d eaten and a soggy packet of gum. She had gotten wet, that much was obvious. But how, and why?

  Penelope picked up her red sweater and checked it. There was a hole in the fabric, and it was stained with…

  “Holy shit—is that blood?” She held it out at arm’s reach but didn’t let it go. Avoiding the stain, she sniffed the soft fabric. It smelled salty like canal water and underneath that iron, something sweet like spice and…

  “Firecrackers?” she murmured. It was Carnevale. Maybe she had stumbled into a street party when they were releasing fireworks? It seemed unlikely. She lifted up her shirt, checking for cuts or scratches that would explain the hole and the blood, but found none. She tossed the sweater and jeans into a laundry bag, hiding them from sight before she bent over to clutch her knees. A wave of nausea flooded her, and she curled up on the tiles and tried to breathe.

  “You’re okay, Penelope. The blood wasn’t yours. Everything’s fine. You’re okay,” she said before she reached for the toilet bowl to throw up.

  TWO DAYS passed before Penelope’s fever broke. She woke with a clearer head in a bed covered with photos and scribbled notes. She had been writing ideas down as they came to her during her brief periods of wakefulness, and as she went through them, less than half made sense.

  “That was some epic stomach flu,” Penelope mumbled as she tried to sort them. Something square flashed in the corner of her eye, and she lifted a torn page from her notebook. It was a sketch of a door, the numerals for thirty-nine scribbled in black ink. Where had she seen that before? There was something about the night she’d gotten sick and the days before it that didn’t feel right.

  It wasn’t just her fevered scribblings. She had received a message from Carolyn asking her if she’d seen the man from her meditation again, but she couldn’t remember doing a meditation since she had arrived in Venice, let alone telling Carolyn about it. Penelope took a hot shower and dressed warmly.

  After making sure that Louisa wasn’t around, Penelope ducked into the hotel kitchen and looked through the cutlery drawers. Someone had drugged her, that was the only solid explanation that made sense, and she’d be damned if she let it happen again. Penelope took out a sharp oyster knife and tucked it into her coat pocket, its shape reassuring against her thigh.

  Exiting the kitchen, Penelope collided with Louisa coming in from the markets.

  “Ah, Dottore! You are looking much better,” Louisa said, patting Penelope’s cheek. “What were you doing in the kitchens?”

  “Looking for you, of course!” Penelope lied. “I wanted to thank you for all of the soup you made me while I was unwell.”

  “Prego bella. But where are you going in this dreadful weather?”

  “Just need some fresh air,” Penelope assured her. She had started to believe Louisa was reporting back to Marco on her condition.

  “Be back by dark,” Louisa replied as she shuffled off to the warm kitchen.

  Outside the sky was gray and the streets of Dorsoduro were damp with mist. Penelope breathed in the salty air and tightened the scarf around her neck. It took her twenty minutes of wandering the streets before she came to the café where she had eaten with Marco.

  “Okay, Penelope, let’s retrace your steps and figure this out,” she said to herself, anger clearing her mind. “Someone messed with you and you are going to find out who. You had your coffee, went to pay the bill…Marco had already paid it, and you went for a walk. Which way?”

  Penelope headed toward a small bridge. She loved the boats that lined the canals at night. She stood at the top of it, reaching for a memory. There was a rusty smear on the stone at her feet that looked like…blood? Her hand shot to the side of her ribs as something silver flashed in her mind’s eye.

  Her body jerked, remembering the feeling of shock as the blade had entered her. She slid her hand inside her coat and felt her ribs as she had done obsessively over the last few days. Not caring who was watching, Penelope lifted her shirt to see the purple line stretch along her heart.

  “What’s happening to me?” she whispered, her pulse racing. She followed the Fondamenta Eremite before turning left onto the Calle dei Cerchieri.

  Penelope took the crumpled drawing of the door out of her coat pocket, déjà vu snapping at her brain like an electric shock. She had been there; she knew it. She walked from one end of Calle dei Cerchieri to the other searching for a blue door that wasn’t there. She retraced her steps and ended up at the Rio de la Toletta, upstream from the bridge she had been stabbed on.

  Someone had pulled her from the water. They had taken her…where? She knew the door from her drawing was connected. She remembered the blue paint, the golden Roman numerals and the lamp that hung on the side of the building. She turned and looked back down the alley. Not far from her was a blank, brick wall with a lamp hanging from it. No door. Penelope hurried over to it, her memory stretching and tearing.

  “I know it was here,” she muttered, re
sting her hand on the damp bricks. Something trembled beneath her fingers. “Pretty door.” She had been carried through it, and then…it had simply vanished like magic.

  How can you break into a magician’s mind? a male voice asked through her memories. She couldn’t recall his face, but his voice made something inside of her burn. I must still be sick to believe any of this, Penelope thought as she rested her head on the bricks. But she knew, deep in her gut, that she hadn’t imagined it. The man, the magician…her fever dreams came back to her carrying with them a name.

  “Alexis,” she whispered, the name tumbling from her freezing lips against the stonework. “Are you there?”

  There was no reply.

  Frustration and anger rolled through her. Something had happened to her and whoever was the cause of it was going to pay.

  Penelope beat her fist against the wall. “God damn it, Alexis! What did you do to me? I swear, if you don’t let me in I’ll get a sledgehammer and knock this fucking wall down! Let me in, you bastard!”

  Bricks crumbled beneath her fists as a blue door pushed its way through them. The Roman numerals gleamed in the gray light. A golden handle appeared and without knocking she opened it.

  A tall man with brown skin and black hair stood on the other side, his lapis blue eyes matching the shirt he wore. Emanating from him was the spicy firecracker smell that had haunted her dreams.

  “Doctor Bryne, what a pleasure to see you again,” he said in his deep Turkish accent.

  Penelope stood frozen as memories flooded back to her. The man in the tower; drinking espresso in a café that didn’t exist; Nereus, Phaidros, and Lyca all arguing whether she should die; and him. She remembered him pulling her from the canal, the feel of his wet lips as he breathed life back into her, a string of light joining them together and pulsing with energy.

  Breathing heavily and fighting tears, Penelope lifted her trembling hand and slapped him hard across the face.