Diego began to say something, but Eneko drove over it. “Besides, consider the logic of what just happened.” He gestured with his head toward the Savoyard. “Pierre is wrong, incidentally. I’m sure of it. We did not summon the Lion, we simply . . . woke it up for a time. To actually summon the thing requires knowledge I do not possess, and—if the legends are to be believed—the participation of one of the four ancient families of Venice. Which are: Terrio, Lacosto—both families long vanished; Valdosta—destroyed, presumably by the Montagnards. And—” He paused, giving the next word added emphasis. “Montescue.”
Diego stared down the dark canal, in the direction of Casa Montescue. “You think the Evil One was trying . . .”
“The same legends also specify a son of the families, Eneko,” objected Pierre. But his demurral was not spoken with any great force.
Eneko smiled grimly. “Yes, I know. But does Chernobog?”
He sighed. The next words came iron hard, for all the softness of the tone. “Enough, I say. I’m satisfied that the Montescue girl is innocent. We’ve got few enough resources as it is—just the three of us. We’ve learned all we can—and need—for the moment, concerning Katerina Montescue. Time to concentrate on two more important matters.”
“What really happened to the Strega Grand Master,” mused Diego. “That’s one. What’s the other?”
Eneko’s little chuckle was quite absent of humor. “What do you think? What really happened to the children of Lorendana Valdosta? Two sons, I remind you.”
“Casa Valdosta was destroyed,” protested Pierre. “Everyone says so.”
Eneko stared into the darkness. “This is the murkiest city in the world, brothers. We cannot assume anything.”
* * *
Agony led the way, dragging the monster back into consciousness. In the cage, true enough, its bones and flesh would knit and heal. But—not without pain. Immense pain, in this instance.
Worse than the pain, however, was the terror; once the monster’s returning mind understood that Chernobog himself was here.
Here . . . and in a rage.
Another blow destroyed most of the healing. A second broke the monster’s spine anew.
You imbecile! You had your orders!
The monster tried to babble its excuse. But it was impossible, with a still-mangled snout.
It would have done no good, in any event. Chernobog was not to be misled, and the monster—now that its mind was no longer clouded with lust—knew how foolish that thought had been.
You awakened the Lion!
Another blow sent gouts of blood flying, along with gobbets of flesh.
Thankfully, it felt Chernobog receding. The fury in the master’s voice ebbed, slightly, replaced by a colder and more thoughtful anger.
Nothing for it. I cannot punish the servant, for there is nothing left to punish. Nor the vessel either, for the moment, since I still have use for it. But you . . .
The broken-bodied, half-paralyzed monster whined, begging forgiveness.
On you I will feed.
The monster howled for some time thereafter, as Chernobog held it down and tore out its innards. Not gobbling the intestines so much as chewing on them, slowly and with apparent relish.
When Chernobog was done, there was not much left of the monster. But, in the recesses of what had once been a mind, the monster knew that there was still . . . enough.
It would survive. Barely.
The healing would be painful. Agonizing.
I trust you will obey me, henceforth.
The monster tried to whine its abject obedience; but failed, quite miserably. The only sound it made was that of spilling blood. Chernobog had also devoured its tongue.