And somewhere between Venice and the rising sun a huge winged being flew, caressing the city, its lagoon and marshes with the shadow of its great wings.
* * *
Kat stared at the devilish thing that had been Lucrezia. It was red-eyed, silver bodied, snaky like Lucrezia’s dagger handle had been—and it was wounded in a dozen places. Maybe she hadn’t quite killed it but she’d certainly stopped it. It was leaking black ichor from the wounds.
And from the moment Marco had fallen, it had no interest in her. Instead, it was struggling to fly on torn, batlike wings. It was heading for the windows as if drawn by an invisible wire.
* * *
Half the town seemed to be fleeing for their lives. The other half appeared to be chasing them.
Benito would have sworn he was the only one who looked up as they pursued Caesare’s party across the Piazza San Marco. It might have been the brightness of the morning sun, but he’d swear that he saw the winged lion settle back onto its column.
* * *
“Is there anything more?” the Lion asked.
Marco looked around, and couldn’t see anything. There was—something—far off—
“It is of no consequence,” the Lion said dismissively. “The Christ-mage, the one who limps; he and his knights have conquered it, and its vessel. And there is another, but believe me—” He laughed, this time a deep rumbling in his chest. “Your young mate and her Power have that well taken care of. Now—shortly, you must become yourself again. But, Marco Valdosta, you not only bear the Winged Mantle now, but you have also taken up the Crown. As long as you live, only you may be the one to call me. No mage may do it for you. You must take care, Marco Valdosta! You must have a care for yourself, and most especially, when you think it might be good to leave my lagoons and my islands. Should Venice need me in your absence, it will not have me, for only you can call me!”
“Yes, Lion,” Marco replied obediently, feeling the burden of responsibility settle on shoulders that stiffened to meet it. “I will remember. If I leave—it will be because there is no other choice, not only for me, but for Venice.”
The Lion seemed satisfied. “You do not complain. Good. It does not seem a great sacrifice to me. I do not know why you humans are so itchy-footed. Now—time to put an end to this, before you—or I—come to like it all too much!”
* * *
The monster crawled towards the window, and Kat felt fear mixed with rage. It—she—was going to get away! Lucrezia had unleashed war in the streets, had killed men with her own hands or her own orders, had hurt Rafael and she was going to get away!
Not this time, little sister.
The golden, glowing hands over hers made her drop the pistol—made her reach to the side, and take a book from a shelf there—a very, very, heavy book, which must have weighed several pounds, encased in a silver-chased cover.
A Bible?
—and throw it.
It landed squarely on the monster.
There was a flash of light that was somehow black, a scream that cut through Kat’s skull so that she clapped both empty hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block it out.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing but a silver-chased Bible in the floor, and a snaky black smudge on the marble.
Hmm. What’s appropriate, I wonder? “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing?” “The Word is mightier than the blade?” Ah, I know! “Let Evil beware the Weight of the Word of God!”
There was—a golden laugh that washed through her, erasing the pain that the scream had left behind, and the feeling of uncleanliness. Then the presence was gone.
Kat shivered convulsively. Then . . . saw the candles in the magic circle suddenly snuff out, saw the air suddenly clear, and the glittering circles of power fade to nothing more than the silver and gold inlaid on the floor.
“Oh God—Marco!” She pushed forward past Luciano’s body. Marco lay still and cold, with the blade still pressed into his breast. Katerina had the impression of a misty and insubstantial gold crown on his head. But the image faded almost instantly, and she had no time to think about it. She tugged at the hateful, fateful dagger. It fell and snapped as if it had been made of the finest Venetian glass. She stared. There was no blood. She ripped at his shirt, scattering buttons.