Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Mercy
It doesn’t take me long to get back to the osteria. The abandoned storage building they kept me in was only a few streets away. I should be happy. Should feel positive. But when I’m close, only a few rounded cobblestone corners away, I feel the wrongness in every cell of my body.
The sun is high. There should be people everywhere. This is peak tourism season, but the restaurants are empty. No one is in the ateliers. The corner stores are abandoned.
It’s like a ghost town.
At first, I fear the worst. Cisco’s dark side has taken over and devoured the city. But everywhere I look, I find no bodies. No death. Just emptiness.
Evacuated.
Steeling my resolve, I tighten my grip on the sword and break into a barefoot jog. The osteria will have clues for me to follow.
I turn down a street and the sun disappears behind a cloud. I glance up, and my heart leaps into my throat. The sky is darkening rapidly by the second, but it’s not a storm cloud gathering force. I think . . . I think it’s flies.
No.
“Please be okay,” I mutter and break into a full-pelt run. “Please don’t be too late.”
Voices. Shouting. There—a flash of clergy red by the basilica steps at the entry to the piazza.
A cardinal with a bald head and light brown skin is speaking to someone out of view.
As I near, I glimpse a flash of purple on another male in a cassock, but that’s all I have time to register because I’m almost at the end of the street.
The piazza comes into full view, and the scene is apocalyptic.
“Holy mother of fuck,” I whisper as I grind to a halt.
The sky above the massive courtyard is a swarming mass of darkness.
I can’t see the buildings and structures on the other side.
Wind gusts against my face every so often, but I think it’s actually the result of trillions of tiny beating wings.
A grating, buzzing roar accompanies the swarming mass as it rises and falls like a stormy sea.
“Suora!”
I spin toward the basilica steps and find Bianchi, the man in the cassock, standing with the unknown cardinal. He is wearing a purple exorcist’s stole around his neck and holds a small book in his hand. Fear has warped his friendly face into something that chills me.
“Padre,” I return and pad up the steps to meet them.
The cardinal’s eyes widen upon seeing me, and then narrow as they take in the sword at my side. I wait for his rebuke, an attempt to take the divine relic, or even a comment. The red he wears makes me think of Valerio and his friends from the steam room.
Reacting to my distrust, the sword responds with a show of strength. A roaring whoosh fills the air as light flares along the blade and fire coats its length, competing with the buzzing swarm.
I twirl my wrist and deftly demonstrate I know exactly how to wield the weapon.
The cardinal’s lips flatten, but Bianchi, the beautiful man, grins at me with such joy I’d be mistaken in thinking we were on the brink of a biblical apocalypse. More than that, he clutches his heart and exclaims in broken English, “Mercy. God bless you. We are saved.”
“Cisco . . .” His name falls from my lips as I scour the darkness at the center of the piazza. It’s almost like a tornado where the obelisk monument stands. I point there with the sword and switch to Italian for their ease. “Are they in there?”
Surely Hannah is there with Cisco. The demonic flies appear more often when the two are close to each other.
“Yes,” Bianchi answers. “We believe so.” He then introduces me to the cardinal. “Mercy is one of the blessed Sinners. Saint Mary’s chosen.”
Saint Mary?
My brows raise at hearing him refer to Mary Magdalene in this way, but the cardinal stops looking at me as if he wants to commandeer my sword, and more like he understands me.
“My name is Cardinal Sharma,” he says to me with a grim nod. “I wish we were meeting in better circumstances. We are fortunate to have you on our side.”
Sharma is an Indian name, but he speaks Italian fluently with a slight British accent.
His good posture is almost aristocratic.
Deep wrinkles bracket his mouth and eyes.
Age spots on the backs of his hands clutching a rosary.
Ink under his manicured fingernails. Could be a scholar—a demonology expert.
“You know Wesley,” I state.
His eyes briefly widen, but then he relaxes with a nod. “I had the privilege of teaching Wesley in the arcane arts at the university. Did he tell you about me?”
“No. I deduced.”
“Mm,” he grunts in approval. “Wesley said you women were smart. I am happy he was right.”
I give him a tight smile because even if that compliment came out wrong, I feel better knowing the Vatican has an expert in the arcane here, so I skip straight to business.
“When I asked if ‘they’ were in there earlier, none of you corrected me. Does that mean you know about Cisco’s sister?”
I look at the darkening storm. It could be my fear playing tricks on me, but I swear it’s growing in size.
“I hoped Francesco read this book with you,” Bianchi replies, fuzzy brows pinching. “But I found this on the steps here. Did you read it? It explains everything.”
When he shows me the book in his hand, a stab of guilt slices through me. It’s the one he gave Cisco in the scavi.
“Um.” I scratch my head. “We hadn’t quite found the time yet, but I think he had it with him when he left in the morning.”
We should have read it the moment we were out of the ruins.
God, I feel so bad, so stupid for getting distracted by feelings and sex.
The flames gutter on the sword. I glance down at it, alarmed, but I don’t think the men noticed.
Bianchi rifles through the open book, and Sharma tries to help him find a page.
I take the opportunity to recenter myself and to fortify my resolve. The past is the past. I’m here now. I can go in armed with knowledge. We’ll be fine.
Bianchi flips another page, and it occurs to me that he found it on the steps.
“Cisco would never discard such a valuable item willingly,” I say, nerves twitching in my belly.
“I am not sure if he is Francesco any longer,” Bianchi replies.
“There.” The cardinal puts his finger on a page, stopping Bianchi’s next turn. “This part she needs to see.”
Bianchi won’t look me in the eyes as he brings the open book to me. His voice shifts to something tight and brittle. The fear I glimpsed on his face when I arrived has returned and is now bleeding from his every pore.
“I can’t read Latin very well.” I scan the pictures above the inscription. I’d always preferred the common languages. “Could you please explain it for me?”
We also don’t have time for my fumbling interpretation.
The ancient artwork reveals two figures in battle: one dark and one light.
Two larger figures are behind them in the sky, each before a storm or a sun.
They are an angel and a devil, also at war.
The angel with the fiery blade is above the light figure.
The devil is shrouded in clouds and above the dark one.
“This.” Bianchi taps his finger. “This is the first time the curse was struck. It is a wager, suora. A battle for the very existence of humankind.”
The tornado darkens and expands as if laughing. The wind intensifies.
“We’re facing an apocalypse. I know,” I clip, a little annoyed. They need to get to the point. “How will this story help me save Cisco?”
He urgently flips to the next page. “The wager is won or lost when the devil sibling—” He lifts a single finger. “—loses their soul to evil completely. The problem is that now, with Francesco and his sister, I think the curse is somehow in two siblings at once. It was never meant to be so.”
“She told me he stole it,” I confess in a rush. Alarmed eyes snap to my face, so I quickly add, “I don’t think he did it intentionally. I think he tried to protect her somehow, and the curse jumped to him.”
I hope.
The two men share a look that tells me they’re not convinced, but I’m not giving up on Cisco.
“If the curse returns to a single host,” Bianchi continues, gesturing to the story within the pages, “it will be too much for one soul to resist. Since the curse began, the descent into darkness was gradual. Over thousands of years! The angel always had a chance to sway the devil. But this time . . . with two souls’ worth of darkness, there’s a chance the single soul will be consumed by darkness immediately. ”
He flips a page. Only one figure is left—the dark one. In his belly is a ball of swallowed light.
“Then I’d better hurry and stab her.” I raise the sword.
“You do not understand.” He shakes his head and puts a hand on my shoulder.
A coldness comes over me. “What did he do?”
The cardinal mumbles a prayer and looks to the heavens, but Bianchi makes the Sign of the Cross and looks in the direction of the osteria.
“Cisco’s family?” I choke out.
Faces flash in my mind, smiling and joking on the terrace. Enzo’s goofy smile. His sister teasing him. Nonna. Aunt Rosa’s hair. Uncle Vince. Marco. Elena.
Finally, Bianchi meets my eyes, and I see the truth glaring back at me.
Cisco killed them all.
“No.” My eyes water. “I refuse to believe there’s nothing left of him. I would know.” My voice breaks. “I would know.”
It feels as if I’m living in a dream, a nightmare. Nothing seems real.
Am I too late?
The instant I think it, I force it out. I’m not that person. I won’t stop fighting until the end.
Fingers flexing on the grip, I turn over options in my head. Should I go in blind? Lure them out? Enlist the cardinal and the exorcist to try a few spells? Or maybe I should go back to the prophecy.
“Before it was split into two portions, the Vatican translated Mary’s Gospel, didn’t they?” I ask them. When they nod, I look to Sharma and add, “There was a passage in there that we translated recently. Something about a Saint devouring a Sinner and Hunger. Do you recall it?”
“I can do better.” He pulls out a stack of folded letters, rifles through it, and then reveals one to me. “Is this it?”
“That’s it,” I mumble. “Thank you.”
That’s the passage we read at the airport.
To slay the starvation of the world,
The Saint must devour the Sinner.
But beware the feast of the righteous.
For every sin devoured to cleanse the world only fattens the beast within,
and so shall the Sinner and Saint become one and the Grievous Hunger shall ride forth . . .
At the time, we’d assumed Saint meant Cisco, and Sinner meant me, but now that I know the story behind the curse, it puts a different spin on it.
“Is it possible,” I ask Sharma, “that the words Sinner and Saint also translate to Devil and Angel?”
Mary’s language was slightly different from the ancient Latin. I remember Thea and Wesley’s frustration over the interpretation.
“Yes.” Sharma rubs his jaw. “If this has the same meaning, then—”
“Then I just need to figure out which of the siblings was the original Devil and which was the Angel.” I pause, my pulse thundering in my ears. “And then I need to help the Angel devour the Devil.” My eyes drop to the final line. “Otherwise Famine will ride forth.”
If all else fails, then that’s what the sword is for.
Vibrations zip up the metal into my hand.
At first I think it’s agreeing with me, but then Bianchi and the cardinal suddenly turn toward the swarm.
I follow their gazes to a pale, youthful figure standing amid the whirling darkness, watching us.
His image is ghostly and disappears every so often when the flies become too thick.
He can’t be more than fifteen or so. At least, that’s my first impression. But his clothes are from a bygone era, perhaps the nineteenth century. The sword hums again, stronger and more intensely.
A warning? Or is it eager to be used?
I point with my sword and ask the men, “Do you see him, too?”
Bianchi gasps, “You see it?”
The cardinal urges, “Describe it.”
“I see a young male,” I answer. “But in the clothes of another time. I thought you could see him because you both turned in the same direction.”
They share another look, and I sense what I’ve revealed has taken another step toward winning the cardinal’s trust.
“We cannot see the demon,” he confirms, “but we sense his evil.”
“The same as Cisco?” I ask, then my brows slam down. “Are you cursed?”
“Not that we know of. Many of us in the Pope’s circle have a gift of some sort,” Bianchi explains. “But none so blessed as yours.”
“We have faith you will do the right thing.” The cardinal dips his head at me, almost reverently. A rush of relief, and something lighter hits me square in the chest. It gives me hope, and I can’t explain it. Don’t have time to ponder it. We need action right now.
“I’m going in,” I announce, and start barefoot down the steps.
“Wait!” Bianchi shouts, jogging down after me. He unwraps his purple exorcist’s stole and hands it to me. “You might need this.”
“Good idea.” I take it and wrap it around my face, shielding my airways. “Thank you.”
From the look of confusion on the old priest’s face, I don’t think this was his intended meaning, but I give him a quick thumbs up and say, “Pray for me, Padre.”
For the first time in my life, I mean it.