Stirring stuff. The mass hysteria of the Easter service was not Matthew’s preferred time of worship, but when participating it was easy to get sucked in, to feel one with the blind, passionate spiritual community. Reason was chased off for a few hours; faith and brotherhood ruled.
Of course, the congregants then rushed home or to some restaurant to gorge themselves. But that was natural enough as well: celebrating after grief; food and drink as physical symbols of rebirth. Back in New York, he rarely partook of the whole ritual, but tonight Matthew wished he could feel part of it, wished that some table of food and candlelight and friends awaited him, wanted it in a way that only one certain of his alienation from the human tribe could want such a thing. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and patrolled the church doors like a sentry, ready to bring down a curse on his whole clan, damning their treachery and arrogance, their rationalism and cold, analytical worldview. Damning himself for being a product of his lineage and not his own man, not the engaged, spontaneous, alive creature he wished to be. The curse died on his tongue. Actions, not words, were required. He needed to remember why he was here.
The figure in the long coat with the quick, confident stride did not fit naturally with this crowd, Matthew noticed, well before the man reached him. Graying hair, a square, strong face, and a smile of the kind normally reserved for an old friend.
“Matthew. You are Matthew, yes?”
“Who are you?”
“Your godfather sent me.” The man held out his hand. “You can call me Risto.”
“Sent you to do what?”
He did not take the offered hand, and Risto withdrew it slowly, his smile wavering.
“To take you back to his house. He is too ill for the ceremony, but he very much wants your company tonight.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“He had hoped until the last moment to attend, but it has proved too much. You cannot be surprised at that if you have seen him recently.”
“What’s your connection?”
“Just a friend.”
“I see. Why don’t we call Fotis and discuss this?”
“He may not be well enough to do so.”
“He’s too ill to speak on the telephone?”
“We can try, of course.” Risto turned and looked out across the plaza with some consternation, and Matthew followed his gaze. Then the man’s strong arm was around Matthew’s shoulder and something dug hard into his ribs. “No trouble, please. The car is just this way.”
“What the fuck,” Matthew spat in English.
“Walk. You are quite safe, but you must come along.”
In fact they were already moving, Risto’s power propelling both of them toward the broad staircase down to the street. Matthew fell into step so as not to tumble down the stairs and breathed deeply to calm himself. Things were moving too fast once more. He needed to think clearly and act quickly, and he must by no means allow himself to be put into a car. As Risto looked up and down the avenue, Matthew dared a glance downward, and realized that it was a fair-sized candle being stuck into his rib cage.
They reached the sidewalk and moved toward the curb, where a small blue compact sat idling, a man at the wheel. Matthew pretended to stumble, and as he was pulled upright again, drove his elbow backward at Risto’s solar plexus. The hard resistance of bone on bone told him he had missed the target, but the bigger man grunted and his grip relaxed briefly.
Matthew broke free and wheeled about, swinging wildly, his fist catching the side of Risto’s head. He turned to move away, figures scattering on the sidewalk before him, but felt a hand on his jacket collar, then a fierce blow to his lower back, stunning his spine and kidneys. He began to slide to his knees, but in a moment Risto had him firmly around the shoulders again, forcing him painfully into the car’s backseat.
Face mashed against vinyl, Matthew could make no sense of the shouting that followed, nor of Risto’s sudden weight on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. A new voice gave sharp, clipped commands, the car lurched into motion. Then there was silence, except for some heavy breathing. As the weight shifted off him, Matthew squirmed up into a sitting position, flushed and disoriented, blood roaring in his ears. Risto was pushed up against him, leaning forward with his head on the back of the driver’s seat. Sotir Plastiris sat on the other side of him with a small pistol against Risto’s right temple. In front, a younger man in the passenger seat had a larger pistol up against the driver’s head, and the car raced and wove through the thin traffic on the avenue.
“Matthew, you are well?” Sotir asked with that odd mix of genuine concern and fierce insistence so peculiar to the native Greek.
“Yes.” His tight throat barely released the word, and he did not trust himself to say more without his voice cracking.
“Here,” Sotir said to the front seat, and his companion communicated a left turn to the driver, who obeyed. The car bottomed out on a narrow, cobbled lane and immediately reduced speed. They were in a rabbit’s warren of small streets and after several turns stopped dead in a short alley. The silence was even more intense with the engine off. Matthew’s senses, emerging from a thick gauze of fear, now seemed suddenly sharp, almost unbearable. He was aware of each man’s scent, every movement in the car, throats clearing, mouths exhaling short breaths. The driver was young and very frightened, sweat staining his collar. The passenger with the large pistol was young also, slightly bored-looking, with curly black hair and handsome features not unlike Sotir’s. One of the nephews, presumably, and they had been watching Matthew without his knowing it, probably the entire day. Andreas’ hand was in this, but Matthew could not bring himself to be offended.
Sotir reached inside Risto’s coat and after some fumbling around removed a small pistol, placing it inside his own jacket.
“Who?” he asked quietly. When there was no answer after several seconds, he struck Risto sharply on the head with his pistol, drawing blood, and Matthew reflexively looked away.
“Who?” Plastiris demanded a second time.
“Livanos,” Risto said.
“Taki Livanos?” Matthew asked, suddenly finding his voice.
“Yes.”
“Fotis’ nephew,” he explained to Sotir, who nodded.
“And what do you want with the boy here?”
“Just to bring him to the house,” Risto answered.
“You need a gun for that?”
“I always carry it.”
“You need to hit him and push him just to bring him to the house?”
“They said he would be suspicious, but I must get him there anyway.”
“Why?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Sotir struck him again, and Matthew bit down on his protest.
“Where is Livanos?”
“Gone. Into the mountains, I think, with the old man.”
“So what happens at the house?”
“We keep him there for a day or two. I don’t know why, they didn’t tell me.” Risto braced for another blow.
