Venom (9 page)

Soon, bella, it will be your turn.

Her breath caught in her throat. The Grand Canal blurred in front of her for a second, and she feared she might faint right into the water. She saw the messenger make his way across the stalled gondolas and over to the south bank of the canal. “Wait,” she called after him, but he melted into a throng of street vendors without looking back.

“Is it news of Luca?” Siena asked.

Blood pounded in Cass’s head. “No,” she said. She looked down
at the parchment again. The note was signed with only a bloody X. Cass touched her finger to the X, half expecting the red lines to cut into her like a blade.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Siena was still looking at Cass searchingly.

“I’m fine,” Cass insisted. She folded the note into smaller and smaller squares until it disappeared into her right palm. She clenched her hand tightly around the folded paper.

Could the murderer have seen her last night? He must have. That was the only explanation. And if he had seen her, he had seen Falco too. They were both in danger.

Unless Falco…But no. Impossible. If
he
was dangerous, if he was the murderer, he could have easily killed her last night.

“Was—was the note from a man?” Siena asked. “Someone you know well…?” She trailed off, her lily-white skin reddening at the unspoken implication.

“No,” Cass said sharply. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

“Well, you do go out late at night sometimes.” The maid fumbled over her words.

Cass sighed. Everyone thought she was off trysting in the graveyard. “I go out to write in my journal, Siena.”

“I’m sorry, Signorina. I meant no disrespect. I just know it must be hard to have Signor da Peraga so far away.”

Cass didn’t answer. She scanned the crowded canal, looking for anyone or anything unusual. Next to her, three young women were dangling their bare feet over the side of their gondola. They wore their hair in braids twisted up on the top of their heads like horns, and their swanlike necks were ringed with pendants and chokers. Each of the girls held large fans made of peacock feathers and
embellished with gilded edges. Courtesans, perhaps? The women laughed and waved to passersby. So vibrant, so alive. So different from the broken, lifeless body Cass had found the night before.

On the bank, a tall man in a black cloak weaved in and out of the crowds that had gathered alongside the canal to watch the chaos. Cass tensed up. Was it the same man from San Domenico? She wasn’t sure. The sun had set and Cass couldn’t make out his face. He turned away as her gondola floated by, melting into the darkness like fading smoke. Cass felt her breathing accelerate. Usually, she found the frantic activity of Venice magical, but suddenly everything felt ominous and evil, as if God had abandoned the city to the forces of chaos. She snapped the blinds closed and sat back in the felze with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

But even hidden inside the little cabin, Cass suddenly felt dangerously exposed, as though strangers’ eyes were burning through the slats of the felze and into her skin. Hot breath swirled around her like mist off the canals. Oars hissed their way through the water. The greenish waves of the lagoon writhed as though filled with venomous snakes. Even the wood of the boat looked malevolent—warped and rickety, as if they might capsize before they made it home.

Later on, in her room, Cass still found it impossible to relax. Her shutters rattled against her window, making her think strangers were knocking at the door. Each time the house creaked, she searched her room again, positive the murderer was under her bed or in her armoire or crouched below her washing table, waiting for her to go to sleep.

Cass grabbed her journal and sprawled out across her bed. Writing usually calmed her. Not tonight. She stared at the blank page, her knuckles whitening as her hand gripped the quill tighter
and tighter. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was frozen. Locked up. Imprisoned. When she opened her eyes, she saw that she had managed to scrawl something on the ivory parchment—a repeating series of Xs slashed across the page. She slammed the book closed in disgust.

It was hopeless. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note, and Livi’s missing corpse. She couldn’t just sit there. She had to go back to the graveyard. Maybe she could find a clue, some hint of what had happened to Liviana’s body.

Cass twisted her hair back and pinned it up with a tortoiseshell hair clip. She grabbed the note from the top drawer of her dressing table—where she had been keeping it locked up, as though it might fly out and bite her—and stole quietly down the stairs. She went to grab the lantern off the side table and then remembered she’d left it in Liviana’s tomb. She headed into the kitchen to get another lantern and saw Siena’s cloak hanging on a polished brass hook beside the pantry. She wrapped the rough woolen garment around her nightgown. She’d draw less attention in a servant’s cloak than her own. Now that there might be a murderer lurking, she would take no chances.

As she passed back through the room, she noticed a small knife on the far counter. The cook must have forgotten to put it away. She tucked the knife into the pocket of Siena’s cloak.

Moving quietly through the house, Cass stepped out into the night without even glancing at Luca’s still-sealed letter. Once outside, she lit the lantern and headed straight for the graveyard.

The wind off the water was brisk, and the smell of salt stung the inside of Cass’s nose. Passing over the rough, uneven ground, Cass slipped through the creaky gate and gazed around, wondering where
to start investigating. There had to be some clue about what had happened to Livi’s body, if she just knew where to look. She headed back toward the Greco family tomb, but stopped halfway there. She wasn’t moving toward Liviana anymore. No, that crypt now belonged to another, to a stranger. Cass felt herself pulled away, drawn toward the section of the graveyard closest to the old chapel, where there were more underground graves than tombs.

She let her intuition guide her. The combination of the warm day and cool night wind had brought on a thick mist, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her. The gravestones disappeared and reappeared in her line of vision like faceless ghosts.

Someone or something disturbed the haze close to her. Cass froze. She squinted through the swirling fog. “Who is it?” she cried out. No answer. “Is someone there?” Her voice sounded thin and terrified. “Show yourself!”

A sleek black cat materialized from the mist. It glowered at Cass with yellow eyes, and then crossed in front of her before dissolving back into the fog. Cass took a couple of deep breaths. Her eyes began adjusting to the gloom as she crept past rows of headstones, pausing at one that lay flat on the ground, cracked in half. Cass felt a chill run through her. Anyone, or anything, could be hiding nearby.

Anyone, or anything, could be hunting her.

Cass swept a hand out in front of her, trying to clear the haze. She held her lantern high. A branch snapped. She spun around, her heart thudding in her ears. The path behind her seemed less foggy than what lay in front. She could almost make out the jagged tips of the iron fence that separated Agnese’s property from the land of the dead. Just as she decided to turn back and give up, the mist parted, and she saw him.

Falco. He sat cross-legged on the damp ground, his hair blowing in the breeze. He was facing away from her, focused on the gravestone in front of him, a beautiful piece of gray marble carved into the shape of a cross with a pair of doves perched on the top. A dim lantern flickered next to him on the ground.

Cass moved as close to him as she dared, stepping as quietly as she could. She couldn’t make out the picture taking shape on his parchment. Falco’s hand moved swiftly, laying down a series of sharp strokes on the paper. Fascinated, Cass took another step closer. Her left foot snapped a dry twig.

Falco’s head whirled around so quickly that Cass stepped back, startled, as the boy sprang to his feet. His blue eyes looked almost black in the moonlight.
Hot. Angry. Violent.
The words flared up in Cass’s mind.

“Oh, it’s you.” Immediately his eyes returned to normal. He smiled his lopsided grin. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re following me.” The way he said it suggested it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

Cass pulled the crumpled note out of her pocket. Wordlessly, she handed it to Falco.

She watched him read it over several times, his mouth settling into a fine white line.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, rubbing at a spot beneath his right eye.

“A messenger delivered it to me in the canals.”

“He followed you into the city?” Falco studied the note again and then, without warning, he leaned down and thrust it into his lantern’s flame.

“What are you doing?” Cass tried to pull the smoldering
parchment from the flame, but her thumb landed on a hot ember and she jerked away. The paper fell to the ground, where it continued to burn until it was nothing but ashes. “That might have been a clue!”

“For whom? We already determined there’s nobody to tell,” Falco said, his voice low and harsh.

“But it’s obvious he’s coming for me.” Cass felt her lip trembling and bit back the tears. She refused to cry in front of this boy. “And I still don’t know what happened to Liviana’s body. Her family would be devastated to know it’s disappeared.”

“Forget the body,” Falco said. “She’s dead. You’re alive. If you want to stay that way, I suggest pretending none of this ever happened. Whatever the murderer’s motives, he’ll have no need to kill you unless you give him cause.” Falco’s voice was light, but it still sounded like a threat.

Cass shivered as she looked around at the gravestones and the monuments. So many dark shadows a murderer could fit inside. “I will not just
forget
the body of a friend—a contessa, I might point out—that vanished into the night. And it’s easy for you to say he won’t hurt us. No one’s left
you
any deranged love notes.” She turned to head back to the villa.

Falco grabbed her shoulder. “Hold on,” he said.

His strength surprised Cass. She tucked her right hand inside her cloak pocket, and her fingers closed around the handle of the small knife. “Let me go,” she said, “or I’ll scream.”

Falco released her. “Please, not that again. My head still hurts from last time.” He flashed a half smile. “Look, I understand why you’re scared. And I understand why you think you’ll feel better if you go to the guard, but they won’t help you.”

“So your plan is just for me to stay here with my aunt and wait to
be murdered? You do realize you’ll probably be next on the list, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” Falco said wryly. “I’m not thrilled about the idea of being stalked by a killer, either.”

“We could go to Piazza San Marco,” Cass said slowly, “and put a letter in the
bocca di lione
.” The lion sculpture stood just outside the Palazzo Ducale, its mouth open wide to accept anonymous tips and accusations.

“We could.” Falco nodded. “But I’ve always thought that box was watched, if not by rettori, then by prying eyes.” Falco tucked the drawing he’d been working on into the pocket of his cloak and leaned back against a tall grave marker topped with a cross. His dark brown hair curled around his face, making him look like an angel in a painting. Cass stood directly in front of him, acutely aware of the fact that they were almost eye to eye. And lip to lip, she realized, tilting her body slightly backward at the thought.

“What if,” Falco continued slowly, as though he were only just piecing together the idea, “you and I do a bit of investigating on our own?” His eyes lit up as he spoke.

Cass took a step back. She felt her breathing slow and her head clear a little. Even the mist seemed to thin. “The two of us? Together?” Cass tucked an unruly strand of hair back into her bun.

Falco reached up and yanked the tortoiseshell clip out of her hair, letting the tangled waves fall around her face. “Could be fun, don’t you think?”

A hot flame coursed through Cass’s blood. She looked away from Falco, hurriedly retwisting her hair up on top of her head. She turned back just in time to see his sketch fall from his pocket and, picked up
by the wind, go tumbling end over end across the grass. “Your drawing!” Her lantern fell to the ground, the candle flame blowing out as she ran after the flying parchment and tackled it.

“So fierce,” Falco murmured, holding out a hand to help Cass to her feet. “I’m beginning to enjoy picking you up off the ground.”

Cass looked down at the paper in her hand, which had unrolled during its journey across the grass. The moonlight illuminated what he had drawn: a gorgeous reproduction of the gravestone with the doves on top. Cass flipped the parchment over. On the other side, Falco had sketched the rough outline of a woman’s body.

Cass’s breath caught; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the figure. She marveled at the sharpness of the knees and elbows, at the soft roundness of the figure’s breasts. The face was still a heart-shaped blank, but the hair looked familiar: it fell in thick, lustrous waves like Cass’s own.

Falco laughed, leaning in close to Cass. “It almost looks like you’re blushing. Why? It’s not like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.”

“You’ve obviously seen more than I have,” Cass said sharply. Her fingers trembled as she handed the parchment back to Falco, trying to look everywhere but at the drawing, wishing he hadn’t seen her staring at it.
Who is she?
She wanted to ask, but the words held fast to her lips.

“If I have, it’s a shame.” Even in the dark, his eyes were flashing. “If I had your body, I’d stare at it for hours. Days, maybe.”

Cass sucked in a sharp breath. “You can’t just say things like that. It’s not, it’s not—”

“Proper?” Falco finished. “Perhaps. I didn’t mean it to be
offensive. A woman’s body is a beautiful thing.” He took ahold of Cass’s hand and twisted it from side to side, opening and closing her fingers. “The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.” He slid his hands down over her knuckles until he was gripping the very tips of her fingers. “You play a more delicate tune than I do. Have you never noticed?”