The Chamber of Ten

Nico hesitated, then nodded. He pulled her into an embrace, kissed her temple, and then stepped back to regard her grimly.

“Whatever you can learn will help,” Nico said. “But as far as I’m concerned, you have something more important to do. I want to have a life for us to go back to when this is all over. You need to do whatever it takes to make sure it isn’t in ruins. You’ve got to check in with Tonio, look in on the Biblioteca project. Don’t cut the strings that connect us to our lives or I fear we’ll be swept away.”

Geena kissed him softly. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Good,” Nico said. “But if the other Doges are here, and Caravello found you, they may be able to as well. You have to be very careful. You shouldn’t go back to your apartment.”

Geena frowned as she considered this, then shook her head.

“No,” she said. “If Caravello followed me, it was from the Biblioteca. It was the project that brought him there, the shattering of Volpe’s heart and the opening of the Chamber of Ten. We don’t have any reason to think that he knew where I lived. Never mind that this is all happening so quickly. It doesn’t make sense to think Aretino and Foscari would know anything about me, if the other two are even here.”

Nico did not like it, but he could see she would not be dissuaded.

“If you see or even sense anyone following you or anything out of place at your apartment, tell Tonio and Domenic and the others the whole story. They might not believe you, but they’ll keep you safe for a time. Long enough to finish this, I hope.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“I suppose we’ll keep moving,” he said, feeling Volpe waking up further, growing restless inside of him. “Make sure you have your cell phone. Call me if you learn anything, and I’ll do the same. But if, for any reason, we can’t reach each other, we will meet on the north side of Rialto Bridge tomorrow night at eleven.”

“Agreed.”

“Meanwhile, be careful.” Nico reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, then bent to kiss her softly, ignoring the lingering stink of disease on her breath, just as she must be doing in return.

I wish you could just come with me, Nico thought.

Geena touched his hand and gently pulled it away. “I can’t. We need to know what’s happening with that tomb. And you’re right. By now Tonio will be furious with me. I need to get myself out of hot water and try to smooth things over for you, too.”

“Is that even possible? As far as the rest of the team is concerned, I stabbed you.”

“Let me worry about that,” she said, walking over to a window. “Besides, I’m more concerned about the fact that they reported the attack. If we want to have a future in this city, I’ve got to start with the police.”

Caravello’s corpse burned like the newspaper Geena’s father had always used to start fires when she was a girl, crumbling up the movie section or the real estate pages and shoving them under the logs before setting them alight. They’d caught quickly, the edges flaring orange and red with rising flames, and then they would ignite with crackling, hungry fire.

Her heart pounded as she watched the flames burn away the ancient Venetian’s clothing and flesh as if it were nothing more than yellowed papyrus.

“We’ve got to go,” she said, reaching out to tug on Nico’s wrist. “Someone will see.”

But in the darkness the fire cast dancing shadows on his face and she could see in that smile and those narrowed, furtive eyes that Nico was absent again, and Volpe had taken over.

“Cleansing fire,” he whispered.

She squeezed his wrist. “If we’re caught—”

Volpe shot her a dark look that reminded her that should they be discovered here, it would not be them who were in danger, but whoever had the misfortune to attempt to interfere.

“We won’t be caught,” Volpe assured her.

“If they are already in Venice, Foscari and Aretino will be looking for Caravello by now,” Geena reminded him. “What if they’ve tracked him here? What if they’re out there in the square right now, waiting for us?”

The old magician turned and glared at her with Nico’s eyes, then looked at the side door through which they had originally entered. With a wave of his hand, not even looking at the corpse, he doused the flames. The fire crackled and popped and burned down to cinders in the space of seconds, and all that remained of Caravello were black ashes.

“This way,” Volpe said, leading her through the kitchen.

“Afraid?” Geena asked, both genuinely curious and taunting.

At the thick metal door at the back of the kitchen, he spun to sneer at her. “Of what would happen to my city if they should catch me unprepared, if they should destroy me? Of course I am.”

Volpe passed a hand in front of the lock and she heard it click as the deadbolt drew back. The man would never need a key to any door. He glanced out into the narrow space between the taverna and the darkened bookstore next door.

“And so should you be,” he said, and then he slipped out.

Geena followed, pulling the door quietly shut behind her. To the right, the canal ran by, but Volpe hurried along the alley to the left, pausing to make sure they weren’t being watched.

“Why?” she whispered as she caught up to him. “Because you’re the lesser of two evils?”

“The Doges would control every breath taken by the people of this city. They would corrupt and kill and enslave. There would be a great deal of blood; the Mayor is only the beginning. And while they might do all of this in secrecy, people would still be dead. Those whose hearts continued to beat would live only at the whim of these devils. And they would spread their cruelty and influence across Europe and beyond. Am I the lesser of two evils? I am the Oracle of Venice. The rest is for you to decide. If it helps you to focus, though, consider this: as long as this is my city, you get to live.”

Volpe stepped out onto the cobblestoned street and walked north, ambling along as if he had not a care in the world. The time had come for them to part ways, but Geena stared after him for several seconds before turning south and heading for home, shuddering as those final words echoed in her mind.

Geena stood beside a narrow canal and tried to breathe through her mouth to avoid inhaling the stink from the water. All of the smaller waterways in Venice were rank with human waste and gasoline spill-off from the thousands of small boats that plied her canals, but various factors mitigated the smell. The tides swept in twice a day to attempt a cleansing they never quite managed. The breeze and the temperature also played a part, but there were some places in the city that seemed to stink ferociously no matter what the variables.

From the darkness just beyond the reach of a lamppost, she stared at the grimy, deteriorating facade of one of the city’s police stations. The stink here was especially strong, and the irony attached to that observation did not escape her. The Italian government and all associated authorities were so rife with corruption that people had long ago accepted the fact as immutable. Payoffs to the right officials in sufficient amounts could achieve almost any desired result. And yet in Geena’s experience, day-to-day business in Venice proceeded in the same fashion as that of other cities. The police kept the peace and tried to protect the public to the best of their ability. Of course, it would have been much simpler if the Venice police never did their jobs at all.

Going in, she thought, unsure if Nico could hear her, or even where he might be now. They had parted ways nearly two hours ago, and she could no longer sense his touch at all. Either he had traveled far from her, or he was purposefully keeping himself hidden. Or Volpe was. It was probably a smart decision, but that did nothing to take the sting out of it.

She crossed the dingy stone bridge that led to an alley that ran between the police station and a small hotel that seemed to have frozen in time during the 1950s. Small boats moored at the canal door of the police station and, as she passed, two uniformed officers came out onto the landing and dropped down into one of them, grim- faced and tired-looking.

Geena took a deep breath and went in through the alley door, which for civilians would be the main door, she supposed. The foyer had old benches with cracked leather seats and a thick barrier of glass or plastic—bulletproof, no doubt, and perhaps explosive-resistant as well—separating her from the two officers who sat on the other side, both of them with phones clutched against their ears, snapping off instructions.