She turned back to Kat. “I learned a great deal from the Grand Duke of Lithuania’s emissary, you know—in no small part, what not to do. She allowed Chernobog to possess her, in exchange for her beauty and power. I have not made that error.”
“You—” Kat tried to speak.
Lucrezia smiled viciously. “And oh, my dear little virgin Montescue! Luciano made a most incalculable mistake in allowing you here, for you will make the perfect sacrifice to break the circle of power.”
* * *
Inside the circle, Marco was unaware of all of this. Luciano’s words were like the droning of bees as he walked the sevenfold circle. Why seven? Why not three or five or nine? He tried to remember what Brother Mascoli had been teaching him. Seven wasn’t a Strega number, though it was pagan. It went back a lot farther than that, to the Romans, or the Etruscans. It felt right, though; each time Luciano completed a circuit, the rest of the room receded a little, the sound from outside faded, and the less important what was outside seemed. He noticed vaguely that someone had come into the room, but—
Well, it just didn’t matter.
Marco found himself transported with the words of power; they carried him somewhere else, or perhaps it was that the interior of the circle became somewhere else. The air was not full of incense. Instead it was a smell he knew far better that: the smell of driftwood fires. Of the marsh-reed pollen. Of the delicate scent of water lilies, of marsh-mallow, of sweet-flag blossom. The air glowed with the thick, amber light of the sun cutting through the mist.
Luciano beat on a drum; or was it a drum? It was more like his own heartbeat, but slow, slow, and full of heat. The air thickened until it was as sweet and heavy as honey, and Luciano’s voice wasn’t chanting words anymore, it was the bees that were droning the chant.
Then came a rumble that built up slowly, and from a distance in the thick air. Thunder?
No—not thunder. A roar. Marco heard a roaring echoing across the marsh, the last great refuge of lions in Europe. But no lion had ever roared like this, no lion he had ever heard of! This roar was thunder in the sky, from a throat like the mouth of a volcano!
He glanced at Luciano for reassurance.
But—Luciano didn’t look right. He was pale and sweating, the hand that held the little drum shaking, and his breathing coming hard.
“Chiano?” he asked—but Luciano didn’t respond. The steady drumbeat faltered.
The beater fell from Luciano’s hand; a hand that clutched at the front of his own white robe, looking remarkably like a claw.
“Chiano!” Marco shouted, panic in his voice.
Slowly, Luciano’s knees gave out and he sank to the ground. Slowly, the drum, too, fell from his hand, rolled across the floor, and overset a bowl of some dark liquid that had been laid aside when Luciano had completed the circles. And Luciano Marina toppled over onto his side and did not stir.
And then Luciano was silent. The mists and brightness around him cleared and Marco understood why.
Luciano Marina would not be summoning anything again. Whatever this was . . . it had been too much for him. His eyes were glazed, staring—and empty.
The yellowed old book was still on the pedestal where Luciano had been standing. A long-bladed bronze knife was lying atop the open pages.
Marco took up the book. It was only a book—but what was in it had killed Luciano.
The circles of power still held, but the magic within them faded with every passing moment.
I have to do something—
But what? He was no magician. Besides, looking at what was said at the top of the page, this called for a willingness to make the greatest of sacrifices. What had Luciano said? “Only been done twice before. And two of the families listed are no more.”
Perhaps . . . perhaps it had been no token sacrifice. Valdosta . . . and Montescue were left. I am Valdosta. . . .
A faint sound penetrated the thinning circles of power, and Marco looked up. As if through a mist, or through frost-covered glass, he saw Lucrezia. Saw Rafael fall. He tried to push through the barrier that Luciano had raised. It was like steel. He beat at it. He might as well have pounded on a rock with his fists.