It straightened and stepped back slowly from the carnage on the bed, all of its senses alert once again.
Nothing. Not a sight, not a sound. Just the quiet and darkness of a great house in sleep.
The monster was not surprised. For all the havoc it wreaked while feeding, the process was actually almost silent. Had it still been capable of the pride that had once been a cherished vice, it would have felt pride at its skill.
But that ancient god was gone. Only animal satisfaction remained.
Before leaving the room, the monster took the time to lick itself carefully and thoroughly. Not because of any fastidiousness, but simply because the master’s instructions had been clear. Leave no trace of your passage.
The thick purple tongue removed the blood and gore quickly and expertly. Then, like an animal moving away to sleep after feeding, the monster returned to all fours and slouched its way out of the bedroom; down the hallway and out onto the balcony; taking care to close the doors behind. Leave no trace.
On the balcony, it paused long enough to lick away any large puddles of canal water left by its entry. What remained would evaporate with the sunrise. A lurch and a slither and it was creeping back down the wall, scanning carefully to make sure there was no one to see.
It slid into the water with hardly a sound. The tail began to move again, and the monster glided through the canals.
The master would be pleased. Remembering Chernobog’s discipline, the monster felt relief sliding alongside satiation.
Although, somewhere inside the mind that had once been divine, a small rage burned and burned. There had been a time . . . when the monster had disciplined others; and smiled coldly, seeing relief on the faces of those he spared.
It might have wailed then, with despair. But the master’s instructions had been clear. Leave no trace. Make no sound.
* * *
During the return, the shaman barely managed to obey his master’s instructions—and then, only by the sketchiest interpretation. Several times he lost sight of the monster swimming ahead of him through the canals.
But . . . he had no trouble following the creature. The monster might have cleaned itself well enough to fool human investigators, with their dim and dull senses. But the shaman—even in his human form, much less this one—was not fooled for an instant. The monster left a trail of havoc and horror that reeked worse than anything the shaman had ever encountered.
Except . . . in the presence of his master.
Chapter 10
Dell’este tapped the sheet of paper. “Well, Antimo? How do you assess this?”
Bartelozzi said nothing. Just looked, unblinking, at the duke. A lesser master might have taken it for insolence. The Old Fox knew better. Antimo Bartelozzi always considered his answers very carefully; that was just his manner.
The duke waited.
Bartelozzi tugged his ear. “Caesare Aldanto overstates his importance in caring for the boys. But basically he is being accurate.”
The old duke sighed. “Grandchildren are for spoiling and dandling on your knee, Antimo.” For a moment he paused, allowing—once again, as he had time after time since Antimo brought him the news—joy and relief to wash through him.
But the pause was brief. The grandfather was disciplined by the duke. “These two are not grandchildren,” he said harshly. “They are Dell’este bloodline. If they survive.”
“You could bring them home, my lord,” said the agent, quietly. “As I suggested once before.”
Duke Dell’este shook his head grimly. “For a first thing, they may well be safer hidden in Venice. For a second, the Dell’este bloodline is like steel. Steel needs to be tempered to both harden it and make it flexible. It must be heated, hammered and quenched.” He took a deep breath. “Some steel becomes the stuff of great swords. But if the alloy is not a good one, if it is not tempered between the furnace and ice, then you must throw it away because it is worthless.”
Bartelozzi looked at the report on the desk. “By the part about the Jesolo marshes, written in Marco’s hand, he’s been through the fire. Young Benito has I think also been tested, perhaps not so hard. They’re only fourteen and sixteen years old.”