The Chamber of Ten

blasting through the keyhole. Then, as abruptly as it began, the fire is gone and only charred ash remains. The maid picks up the bedclothes and shakes them out, and he sees that they are not burned at all.

The maid has only to sweep away the ash and the only sign of the Athenian ever being there will be the unfulfilled dampness of her sex and the marks of his hands upon her throat, and both will fade.

He should go, sneak back to his room and pretend that he has seen nothing. He could, and she would never know. But he cannot.

As if his actions are no longer his own, he rises, lifts a hand, and raps on the door. The house is empty other than the two of them. No one else has heard the screams. No one else is coming. And she will know that it can only be him at the door. Still, long seconds pass.

When the door creaks open she is clad in a thin robe and she studies him with a ravenous curiosity as he enters the room. And then she smiles.

“Zanco, what did you see?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Nico lies.

By her bedside is a small silver mirror. She picks it up and holds it so that he can see his reflection. The skin around his right eye is burned a bright red in the shape of a keyhole.

She smiles.

Nico feels his heart thundering in his chest and wonders if she can hear it. His prick is rampant, straining against his clothing. His lower lip quivers and he cannot meet her gaze, but then he forces his fear away and lifts his eyes.

“Teach me,” he says, and he does not stammer.

He is asking so many things with those two words, and she seems to understand them all. She releases the catch on her robe and it glides down her copper skin to pool at her feet.

And the magic, and the power, begin.

But he is not Nico. He is Zanco Volpe. And Nico knows he will learn his lessons well.

Tremors shook the Slav’s body. The knife in his right hand shook most of all. Volpe turned his back on the man, walked to Nico’s coffee table, and set down the dead thug’s gun. The bullet wound in his shoulder had healed almost completely, but it gave an unpleasant tug as he reached down to turn a chair toward the Slav and sat in it, the blood on his clothes and hands soaking into the fabric.

“Now,” Volpe said, “I have questions. You will provide answers.”

The Slav’s upper lip quivered as though he wanted to muster up another gob of phlegm to show his disdain for this suggestion, but he could not manage even that. Volpe had him.

How old are you? Nico asked, inside his head.

Quiet, Volpe said. Sit and learn. I have opened the doors of my mind to you. If we must share this body—

My body!

—then I will be a gracious host. You wish to understand spellcraft and ritual, but you must educate yourself. I have business to attend to. All of Venice is in peril.

Volpe could feel the doubt in Nico’s thoughts.

Your control of the city is in peril, not the city itself, Nico thought.

Volpe ground his teeth in irritation. Nico’s presence within this flesh had to be tolerated for now, but it had begun to wear on him.

We shall see. Now be silent.

“Basssstaarrrrrd …” the Slav managed to slur.

“Ah, you want to talk now?” Volpe said, leaning forward in the chair. “Excellent. I’ll give you the freedom to speak. Take a look at your friend there on the floor.”

He gestured at the corpse—at the pouting gash in the pale man’s throat and the way the dead eyes gazed lifelessly at the ceiling.

“Now, then,” Volpe continued, “who sent you here and what were your instructions?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the Slav growled.

Volpe sighed in unfeigned impatience, then clenched his right hand into a fist and raised it up. The Slav lifted his long, wicked-edged blade. He stared at it, Volpe all but forgotten.

“No. No, no,” the Slav said, face contorting as he struggled to regain control.

At a gesture from Volpe, he drove the knife down into his thigh. He opened his mouth to scream, but Volpe gave a twist of his left hand, like the turn of a lock, and stole his voice. Blood sluiced from the wound. Tears sprang to the Slav’s eyes and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

This is wrong, Nico protested in his mind. It’s torture.

Volpe had felt him examining old memories, turning them over like the pages in some grimoire. But now the events unfolding in his living room had gotten Nico’s attention.

Yes, it’s torture. But he has chosen it. Now, hush.

“No screaming,” Volpe cautioned. He unlocked the Slav’s voice and gave a nod. “Answer the question.”

The Slav gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes closed, and opened them again. The hatred in them had returned, but fear lingered as well.

“A man named Foscari,” the Slav said in that guttural snarl of an accent. “Like the university. An alias, obviously.”

“No,” Volpe replied.

The Slav looked confused. With the twitch of a finger, Volpe made him raise the knife again and the fear returned to his eyes. After that, the words spilled out of him.

“I got word to meet at the Hotel Atlantico, that the money would be good. There were others there, too. Some I recognized. Others like me, professionals. Foscari came in with another, an older man with a long white beard tied in a knot. They were both … formidable. The other one—Foscari called him Pietro—never spoke; Foscari gave the orders, split us all up, and gave us our assignments. There were targets to follow, people to find—”

“People to kill?” Volpe asked.

The Slav resisted, his lips closed in a thin line.

Volpe made him stab himself in the meat of his left arm. To his credit, the man grunted in rage and pain but did not try to scream. He glared at his tormentor, breathing in and out through bared teeth.

“People to kill,” the Slav repeated.

“The Mayor?”

The Slav blinked in surprise, but he no longer resisted. A hateful smile spread across his face. “To begin with. There were others. Financial people. The owner of an old palazzo in Dorsoduro. Minor officials in the city government. Some are still breathing, but not for long.”

You were right, Nico thought. They’re moving in, disrupting everything so they can take advantage of the chaos. What will they do now, put people under their influence in positions of power?

Of course, Volpe replied. They will be buying homes—perhaps even the homes they once owned. Investing. Taking control. Killing those who refuse to assist them. But it’s only the beginning. I’ve seen in your mind what you think of the government you have now. Those men are saints compared to the Doges. And with the magic they have accumulated, and the evil of Akylis surging through them, making them even more powerful, in time they will have the world, if they want it.

“Were you here to kill Nico Lombardi?” Volpe asked.

The Slav blinked in surprise. His eyes saw Nico Lombardi sitting before him, speaking of himself in the third person. He could not see that another lurked inside the human shell that housed Nico’s mind and spirit.

“No,” the Slav said. “Foscari has had people watching your project at the library in San Marco since yesterday, talking to employees there. But none of the group has a kill order on you. It was all just observe and report—until tonight, that is. They didn’t say we couldn’t hurt you, even break you a little, but tonight we were supposed to bring you in alive. You and your girlfriend, Dr. Hodge.” He sneered into a smile as he said it. “Wait until