Book of Stolen Tales (37 page)

I was aware of the biblical plague although not the scientific explanation for it. “Like the myth of werewolves explaining outbreaks of rabies?” I offered. He nodded. “What about more recent epidemics?”

“It's the same. When illness proved resistant to the cures of the day, people blamed it on witches or warlocks or bad fairies casting spells, so the effects of widespread disease were expressed as a plague tale.”

“There's something else related to this,” I said. “I was warned about the book and told not to open it because it was dangerous. I assumed that referred to the treacherous knowledge it contains.

You know old books much better than I do. What do you make of that?”

I'd hesitated to mention this to Naso, thinking he'd just make fun of the idea, but his face darkened as he listened to me. “And did you ignore the warning and open the book?”

“It was too tempting.”

Worry spread across his features. “How long ago?”

“A few days—why?”

“Did you touch it?”

“Yes, but I wore latex gloves to protect the old papers.” Then I remembered I'd handled the golden covers with my bare hands.

“I too looked inside the volume I bought, not knowing about this prohibition,” Naso said worriedly. “Did it never occur to you to take the warning literally? Saturating pages with poison was an assassination method during the Renaissance. You lick your finger to turn the page and …” He drew his finger across his throat. “
The Arabian Nights
includes a story on that very subject. By now, though, I should be dead since I opened the book months ago without any protection. We can conclude that is either not what was meant or the volume I bought was safe.”

He bent down and reached behind the box set into the hollow of the little mausoleum and then straightened up like a shot, a panicked look in his eyes. “It's gone!”

“What?”

“The book!”

“I thought no one could get in here.”

“Only the caretakers who've been employed here for many years. They know this is my shrine to Marisa. They would not take from me.” He rubbed his plump hand over his face. “What am I going to do? This has become a disaster.”

I tried to reassure him. “Don't worry. I know who did this. The same man you described on the phone to me. He probably took your copy like he took mine. I've documented as much of this as possible. You're not alone.”

“M. Villeneuve?”

“Yes, him. That's just an alias. One way or the other, I'm going to find him.”

“All the same, I'll have to tell the police.”

“Go ahead. That's the right thing to do.”

I walked partway back with him to give him some comfort. By the time we bade each other good night, he seemed calmer. I promised to stay in touch and let him know if I made any progress.

Without Naso by my side, I hurried through the streets searching for a place to get a drink and figure out my next steps. Naso had purchased the fourth volume, day four of Basile's anthology. With no proof and without knowing what happened to the final volume, I'd run out of leads.

It hadn't been pleasant to deliver the bad news to Naso, or to anyone else for that matter. What seemed at first like a righteous hunt for a criminal over a simple book theft had fanned out into deadly consequences for Ewan and Katharina and now probably Dina too. My guilt bubbled up again. Where was she? What happened to her?

When I drew close to Via Santa Teresa and could see its bright lights I leaned against a store window and got out my phone. I checked to see if Dina had left me a message. Nothing. Then I remembered I'd never received an answer to my inquiry about the round stone weight from Samuel's colleague. Even though it was late I could try to catch him at home. I was relieved to hear him answer. He'd recognized the weight and told me what it was used for. I thanked him and hung up, thrilled at this unexpected reversal of fortune. Finally, one key piece of the puzzle Renwick set in motion was solved.

Thanks to his information, I now also knew which fairy tale Renwick sought. That brought me one step closer to the secret he coveted.

The streets were still lively; all the same, an uneasy feeling stole over me. An alley angled off to my right. I looked down it hoping to spot a sign for a bar or café. Instead, I saw a wavering shadow. One I knew well by now. Alessio, leaning heavily on his cane, shuffled over the cobblestones in my direction. His dark coat clung to him like a shroud.

Part Three

THE LAND OF NO RETURN

To the land of no return, the land of darkness,
Ishtar, the daughter of Sin directed her thought,
………………………...................................
To the house of shadows, the dwelling of Irkalla,
To the house without exit for him who enters therein,
To the road, whence there is no turning,
To the house without light for him who enters therein,
The place where dust is their nourishment, clay their food.
They have no light, in darkness they dwell.
Clothed like birds, with wings as garments,
Over door and bolt, dust has gathered.

—EXCERPT FROM “THE DESCENT OF THE GODDESS ISHTAR INTO THE LOWER WORLD,” A BABYLONIAN MYTH

Thirty-Seven

H
e kept his head down, oblivious to his surroundings, as if off in his own world. As far as I could tell Alessio was alone. I dipped into a doorway and held my breath, waiting for him to pass, afraid the crippling paralysis would once again seize my limbs. I flexed my fingers. No tingling or sense of heaviness.

I pushed out from the alcove and trailed him. He walked haltingly along the roadway without once looking back.

He turned north, going deeper into Sanità. I kept my distance, lingering in doorways, keeping to the shadows. As I followed him through the old district, I felt transported in time and Naples' magical history came alive. I fancied that the Prince of Sansevero, a Rosicrucian and alchemist, prowled Sanità's pathways again. Some claimed the prince perfected the metalization of human bodies and produced eternal light from the pulverized skulls of innocent souls he'd abducted. I imagined, too, medieval doctors moving through the alleyways in their cloaks and long-beaked masks to protect against the plague, or the richly festive costumed celebrations before Lent. It struck me that Basile's fantastical characters and flamboyant descriptions were not so much an invention as a faithful record of his beloved city.

A sweet, pungent odor hovered in the air. When Alessio turned a corner, a man swinging a copper censer brushed by him and smoky incense billowed about his cloak. A throwback, perhaps, to the days when plague victims and detritus lay in the streets. As he passed by me I had to cover my mouth and nose, overwhelmed by the perfumed vapor. Knots of men smoked outside the tiny bars lining Alessio's route. They cast sidelong glances at him and looked away. They might have threatened me had I been alone, but just as Naso's good spirit protected me on the way to Il Fontanelle, Alessio's wraithlike presence shielded me now.

He stayed close to the buildings and stopped frequently, putting a hand against a wall to balance while catching his breath. He dragged his right leg and leaned heavily on his cane. Before long, I recognized the streets. He was heading to Mancini's palazzo, where I'd first seen Dina.

I assumed Alessio would take the short laneway leading to it but he continued on. I gazed at the ivory walls of the palazzo, half expecting to find Dina framed by a window. She was nowhere to be seen. No light shone from within the house. It had the still and ominous feeling of a home abandoned.

Alessio turned at the next intersection and made his way down a road barely the width of a car. The block's entire east side was occupied by one long building made of a rougher, darker stone than Mancini's palazzo. No wrought-iron balustrades spilled bougainvillea here—the structure had only a glazed black door flanked by two ancient twisted orange trees. Alessio leaned against the doorpost and fished in his pocket for a key. His hands shook as he inserted it in the lock.

I rushed toward him, shoulder down, and pinned him against the door. He cried out with the blow and crumpled beneath me. As he fell, I realized this was not the same man who'd shown up at my hotel room. Alessio now seemed as I'd originally perceived him that evening in London—frail and elderly. His face had reddened and puckered so badly it was almost unrecognizable. Only in those dark, expressive eyes did a hint of his former vitality still lurk.

“You stole Naso's book.” I wasn't sure he even heard my accusation as he wheezed with the effort to pull in air.

When he lifted his head to speak I could see the bruises on his neck had ulcerated to become fiery-red open sores. “There is no theft when the volumes have been restored to their rightful owner.”

“You mean Mancini? Neither of you has any moral right to them now after killing for them.”

“I had no part in that. Lorenzo Mancini is the one with blood on his hands. And now he comes for you.”

For a moment I feared Alessio meant Mancini had returned from Ghent. “Is he back already?”

“Not yet.” His effort to shake his head caused a burst of coughing.

“You work for him. Why are you telling me this?”

“I am more his enemy than you. I set myself against him.”

“By trying to kill me? A strange form of retribution.”

“You are alive, are you not? I wanted only to find each volume and keep them out of the conte's hands. I did not wish to take your life! I let you live. I went so far as to endanger myself in the London river to stop the demon from overwhelming you. And in France, when Renard's dogs would have torn you apart, I lured them away. I came back here to seek my final rest, not expecting to see you again. It is good, though, that we meet here.”

“You'll have to come up with another reason. Superstitions won't sway me.”

“It is the truth. The demon would not leave me. It was wedded to me like my own flesh. Only now, because I am weak and sick, has it gone.”

Was it possible? Dina had warned me about the conte's desire to raise a demon named Frucissière and from the first, any point of contact with Alessio had an abnormal quality. I dismissed the thought as soon as it arose; it was too incredible to believe. And yet Alessio spoke the truth: when he could have finished me off, he'd waded into the cold Thames. My brother's words drifted back to me: “The old gods aren't dead; they've just withdrawn to hidden places.”

Alessio tried to get up and fell back. My anger with him diminished and I felt a wave of pity for the tired old man. “You're very sick. Let me take you to a hospital.” I bent down and slipped my arm around his back to help him rise.

His head drooped slightly and he took a moment to drag in a breath. “No. I must finish what I started, even if none of it came about from my own will. I was Mancini's instrument. He sent me out to recover the book, yes. Even though it is not his. The book belongs to the woman.”

“You mean Dina? It
did
belong to her all along? That's how you found out I was in Naples, wasn't it? She told you.”

“Yes, she did. Lorenzo Mancini's men captured her in Rome and brought her here. I must take you to her for I haven't the strength to help her myself.”

“Where is she? In the palazzo?”

“No. The other place. Where no one dares go.”

“What other place?”

“I will show you.” He lifted his cane to indicate the door but managed only to raise it a few inches off the ground.

“Are they keeping her in here? How many are guarding her?”

“None. Only one was left to keep watch over her. He is no longer a concern, as you'll see.”

“If she's in trouble we have to call the police.”

“This building is owned by the conte. They will not enter without his permission.”

With all that had gone before, I was still wary of him and had no intention of walking straight into a trap. “You're going to have to prove she's in there. I'm not going in just on your word.”