Something watching—perhaps hunting. Something evil. A true innocent might, might be safe from such a thing, but how many people were true innocents, once out of leading-strings?
“Too late . . .” he murmured. “For anything except prayer.”
He turned back, sharply and decisively. “Join me, Pierre. Here. Now. Whatever it was—let us test the thing. If it is what I think it is . . . Chernobog has made a serious error.”
Pierre hesitated. The Basque priest’s solid bar of eyebrow lowered. “It is not forbidden, Pierre!” he snapped. “And what is the alternative? To allow a girl who may be guilty of nothing more than venial sins to be devoured by Chernobog?”
The Savoyard’s uncertainty vanished. A moment later, he joined Eneko on his knees, crucifix in hand.
“Protections?” Pierre asked. Eneko shook his head.
“No time, but we are not the ones it is hunting—” Eneko cleared his mind of the distracting worry that this might be a trap for him and his own people. “Saint Mark—”
“Ah!” Pierre caught his meaning. “I found a prayer in the Accademia library that might be what we need.”
The Savoyard bent his head over his clasped hands and began murmuring the words; Eneko concentrated on them, and on special, sacred magic of a Hypatian priest-mage, that of directed, aimed prayer, with power behind it.
Blessed Saint Mark . . . patron and protector . . .
The power flowed, outward and upward, as Eneko concentrated; he felt another power join to his—Pierre’s—and their souls sought for that place where prayers were answered.
But then, what he had not dared hope for.
He felt something stir; sensed sleepy eyes opening, somewhere, in that place that was outside space and a time beyond time, in that other where spirits dwelt. Something ancient.
What—
He did not have the means to answer that question; It could not hear him, he lacked a voice It would respond to. But he didn’t have to answer it; he sensed It was now . . . looking. For just an instant, Eneko thought he saw a pair of great eyes, opening.
* * *
The monster was at the water-door. Not because it sought entry by that means—too risky—but simply because it wanted to be certain. It required only a moment of soft snuffling, licking the door with its tongue.
Yes. So strong! So delicious!
It moved slowly down the canal, searching the walls. A very great house, this was. Still massively impressive, despite the little signs of disrepair.
That disrepair would be of good use to the monster. There was a route up the walls—as easy to climb as a chimney to an experienced mountaineer. The monster almost chortled with glee.
Then . . . restrained itself again. It was still too early. Night had fallen, yes; but the house would not be asleep. The monster could not risk Chernobog’s anger that much.
Wait. Wait.
* * *
Something else awoke, stirred from long slumber by prayers. Opened golden eyes, and then . . . understanding the meaning of the prayers . . .
Great muscles rippled down a tawny back. Huge wings began to unfold.
In my city? You grow too bold, Chernobog!
There was some fury in the thought. Not much. Mostly, the thought was just . . . amused. Christian priests, no less! They’re not usually that smart.
* * *
From his hiding place in the pilings nearby, the shaman watched. He was awash in fear. The shaman understood what the monster was doing, and he knew that the slightest motion on his part would draw its attention. Should that happen, the shaman was far too close now to even hope to escape. In open water, with enough of a lead, the shaman in his fishform could outswim the monster. But here, in the narrow canals—the shaman had seen how quickly the monster could move in a lunge—
The shaman prayed to his pagan deities. Prayed desperately, hoping that time itself would move faster in its course.
* * *
It was time!
Still almost silent, for all its eagerness, the monster heaved out of the water and began climbing up the wall. It made swift progress, even stopping from time to time to scan the area in order to be certain there were no observers. The heavy wall’s disrepair made climbing easy.