The Medici Dagger

Ginny with it; instantly, her arms and legs splayed out and she collapsed, limp as a scarecrow. So that was the lightning bolt that laid me out in the driveway.

Tecci replaced the zapper in his pocket and clicked on the laser. He took a step toward me. “Joey, Lon,” he called to his goons.“Hold Flame Boy’s head back for me. Are you ready to scream, Ace?”

I gripped the metal rails of the chair, bracing myself for the pain.

Somebody grabbed my hair and pulled. I heard pops as my neck bent back, gas escaping from between cervical vertebrae, like at the chiropractor. Tough hands with callused fingers held my forehead. I smelled Nolo’s breath as he exhaled. It was oddly sweet—toothpaste-sweet.

“Now don’t move,” Tecci said. “I like to be neat.” Dread surged in me as I felt the first sting of the laser on my neck and smelled the unnatural scent of burning flesh.

I stubbornly clung to a thimbleful of resolve not to howl in agony.

“Nice cursive N,” Nolo said, like a grammar-school kid, “loop, down, and up and over the mountain.” I pictured him with the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, focused.

“I did it just like this to your father in his study while you and Mommy were upstairs sleeping,” he whispered in my ear.

My mouth went bone dry. I shut my eyes.

“I was just making sure he didn’t have the notes,” he continued. “Actually, it was his time anyway. And it was my pleasure to take him. He wasn’t as tough as you. He cried.”

I pictured my dad, downstairs at his desk that last night; he never did come up to kiss me.

Nolo started singing to the tune of “Jingle Bells”: “What fun it is to laugh and sing a . . . ‘slaying’ song tonight.”

I inhaled deeply, the smell of my own singed tissue filling my nostrils. I swallowed, surprised that my throat still worked.He’s just signing me.A whiff of hope drifted in with the noxious vapor. Then it occurred to me: the knife is next. Tecci is a stabber—a gasher. I wondered where I’d get it.

“Almost done,” Tecci said. “There, A-plus. Let go of him.” I leaned my head forward and peered at the man who had burned his initial into my throat. He winked at me. “You’re very brave,” he said sarcastically.

Tecci turned to the goons. “Okay, boys, drag Miss Venice out to the car, get the gas, do the hokey pokey and shake it all around. Jocko, collect all the artwork and try not to trip and break your other wrist. Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

So he wasn’t going to stab me; he was going to let me burn.

Tecci and his men moved about the room in a menacing choreography, transporting my sagging Ginny out the door. I understood that they’d have no use for her after she translated the Circles of Truth. The thought crawled over me. I watched Lon and Joey reenter with gas cans, spilling clear foul fluid along the edges of the floor.

I fought the burning pain in my throat and heart, and quested for that place where the rhythm of my swift feet skimming the forest floor opened my eyes to everything. Low branch, fallen tree, slippery leaves, the jet black panther.

“Arrivederci,Flame Boy,” Nolo said, standing at the open front door with a gold lighter in his hand.

He sparked it, knelt down, and touched it to the floor, igniting the gasoline fuse. As he closed the door behind him, the trail of flame instantly whooshed around the room.

Smoke began to fill the place. I yanked at the cord cutting into my wrists.

“Archie!” I called. “Archie!” No human sound, just the deadly gust of fire.

The drapes ignited; flames traveled up to the pine-beamed ceiling. A windowpane burst.Glass. The fireplace door!My ankles were tied as tightly as my wrists but I could still move my feet.

I shifted my weight against the back of the chair and got on my tiptoes, lifting the front legs a little way off the ground. Carefully balancing so as not to tip over backward, I lurched forward, scraping the chair several inches toward the fireplace. I did it again. The chair moved again.

Black smoke billowed toward the ceiling. Dry, angry heat whipped me like a slave. I sucked in the thick air, coughed, and repeated my move, one, two, three more times.

One more shuffle and the tips of my boots touched the hot glass. I kicked one of the panels as hard as I could with the tiny bit of freedom the ropes allowed. The glass rattled against the brass supports. I sucked in more air, clenched my teeth, and kicked again. This time the panel shattered.

Sweat poured down my face, stinging the incision in my neck. I stuck my foot right into the fire. I felt intense heat through the back of my boot and the leg of my jeans as the orange flames viciously chewed at the twine. I tugged with every ounce of strength in my quadriceps. The rope burned through just as my pants caught fire.

I stood on my free leg, hopped over to the kitchen, and frantically rubbed my jeans against the doorjamb till the flame went out. Then I hobbled to the butcher block next to the sink. I grabbed a long knife and cut into the cord at my wrist.

The goons hadn’t doused the kitchen, but it was quickly filling with smoke. In two frantic seconds I sliced through the tight bonds.

“Archie!” I shouted. Nothing but the roar of the fire. I turned on the tap full-blast, soaked my head, grabbed a dish towel, drenched it, too, and threw it over me. Then I ran through the smoke-filled house in a crouch, looking for Archie.

I found him in a bedroom down the hall, faceup on the floor, tied at the wrists and ankles. Tossing the towel over his head, I grabbed himby the arm and moosed him up onto my back—all two hundred and twenty pounds of him—tearing out every one of Pop’s good stitches.

Dashing down the narrow hall, I staggered through the roaring flames in the living room to the front door. I grabbed the scorching knob and flung it open. The fresh air combusted behind me, erupting like a volcano. I