Worse than the pain, however, was the terror; once the monster's returning mind understood that Chernobog himself was here.
Here . . . and in a rage.
Another blow destroyed most of the healing. A second broke the monster's spine anew.
You imbecile! You had your orders!
The monster tried to babble its excuse. But it was impossible, with a still-mangled snout.
It would have done no good, in any event. Chernobog was not to be misled, and the monster--now that its mind was no longer clouded with lust--knew how foolish that thought had been.
You awakened the Lion!
Another blow sent gouts of blood flying, along with gobbets of flesh.
Thankfully, it felt Chernobog receding. The fury in the master's voice ebbed, slightly, replaced by a colder and more thoughtful anger.
Nothing for it. I cannot punish the servant, for there is nothing left to punish. Nor the vessel either, for the moment, since I still have use for it. But you . . .
The broken-bodied, half-paralyzed monster whined, begging forgiveness.
On you I will feed.
The monster howled for some time thereafter, as Chernobog held it down and tore out its innards. Not gobbling the intestines so much as chewing on them, slowly and with apparent relish.
When Chernobog was done, there was not much left of the monster. But, in the recesses of what had once been a mind, the monster knew that there was still . . . enough.
It would survive. Barely.
The healing would be painful. Agonizing.
I trust you will obey me, henceforth.
The monster tried to whine its abject obedience; but failed, quite miserably. The only sound it made was that of spilling blood. Chernobog had also devoured its tongue.
Chapter 19 ==========
Caesare Aldanto leaned back in the dark corner of the tavern where he had taken a table. For a moment, he closed his eyes, scowling inwardly as he felt the continuing effects of the disease he'd contracted. It had been almost two weeks now since Marco had begun medicating him. And while that medication had certainly helped enormously--quite possibly saved his life, in fact--Caesare was still feeling some lingering weakness.
Damn Venice and its miserable swamps anyway!
He sighed. He couldn't afford any weakness. Not at any time in his life, much less now. In Venice, less so than in any city in the world except possibly his home town of Milan itself.
In truth, he detested Venice. Still . . . it was an excellent place for a man like him to make his fortune. So, suppressing all else, Caesare reopened his eyes and gave the gloomy interior of the tavern another careful examination.
This was not Caesare's usual haunt, but it suited his purpose today. The tavern was dark, the food and wine were inferior enough that it wasn't very popular, and he wasn't known here.
Sensing movement at the door, his eyes flicked in that direction. Caesare had taken a table in the rear, as he had specified to the contact. So when Sachs's man entered, he didn't have to stand in the doorway peering around, which would have made him suspicious and uncomfortable.
As the new arrival made his way past the tables, Caesare realized that this man would have had no difficulty recognizing him anyway. They were old acquaintances, after all.
Relishing the shock he'd give the fellow, Caesare leaned forward, taking his face out of the shadows. 'Good evening, Francesco,' he said genially.
