Arcadia Burns (27 page)

The muzzle flash of her pistol cut through the smoke, and the pressure wave drove the swathes apart.

The force of the bullet’s impact shattered the leopard’s
shoulder blade. Michele howled, staggered in the air as he leaped over Alessandro and made for Rosa.

She fired again.

Michele’s paws touched the ground once more as he tried to pounce for the last time.

Her third shot hit him in the throat.

He uttered a roar, lurched from side to side, but kept coming toward her, forelegs outstretched. Then he buried Rosa under him.

When they hit the ground, his open muzzle was right above her face.

Pitilessly, his jaws were snapping shut.

A
NIGHTMARE IN SEPARATE
images.

Movement chopped into a few dozen pictures per second.

The leopard’s open jaws filled Rosa’s entire field of vision, a black hole surrounded by bloodstained teeth. She seemed to be almost falling into them as his muzzle came down on her. His breath smelled of iron and raw meat. The big cat’s weight forced her to the ground, but she hardly felt it.

And as she saw him coming toward her in that endless moment, he changed back into a man. His eyes clouded over. Blood shot out of the wound in the front of his throat where the bullet had gone in, and also the exit wound at the back of his head, where it had shattered the nape of his neck and left his body.

The snapping jaws shrank to human size, the muzzle grew shorter, yellow fur became smooth skin. She saw it all in the extreme, tormenting slow motion of her shock. She heard his cheekbones crack and grow together again, saw his nose and his eye sockets change shape, watched the corners of his mouth move closer together, as the dimples that were so like Alessandro’s appeared in his cheeks. And all the time his features continued descending on her. What had begun as a deadly snapping of jaws, a greedy bite full of hate, became a
touch, an involuntary kiss, as his lifeless face came down on hers, and slipped off again sideways a second later.

Rosa lay there, buried under Michele’s body, and for a moment she was back in the Village on that night. But at the same time she realized that this made it final. Tano had been dead for a long time, and now Michele was dead as well. It was over.

“They’re coming back!” someone shouted in hollow tones. “We have to get out of the courtyard.” Iole.

Then Rosa heard a familiar barking over by the entrance. There stood Sarcasmo, beside Iole, who was all bundled up and gesticulating wildly in the direction of the tunnel.

Soon none of this will matter anyway, thought Rosa. The smoke will kill us. Maybe it’s poisoned us already.

A jolt shook her body as the black panther rammed his head into Michele’s side. The body was flung off her, and she was free.

Alessandro, still in animal form, battered and bleeding, nudged her and indicated that she should stand up. Iole ran over and helped her to her feet, supporting her. The slender girl—always underestimated and in no way as helpless as she seemed—led her back into the house, and seconds later the door closed behind them.

Rosa slipped out of Iole’s grasp to the floor, felt Sarcasmo’s tongue licking her cheek encouragingly, and at the same time saw Alessandro before her. He made no move to change back into human form.

The cold was beginning to spread through her. The serum
had stopped working; scales formed under her transparent skin, grew, and pushed their way out. She tried to stop the transformation, but she was too weak.

With the last of her strength, she explained her plan. Her words tailed off into hissing and spitting. Sarcasmo growled at her and retreated. Iole patted his sooty coat. But Alessandro came closer, bent his panther head over her, and nudged her with his black nose.

He had understood.

He knew what they had to do together.

Iole flung open the door to the grounds.

“Now!” she whispered, holding Sarcasmo with one hand in case he stormed out into the night. He tugged and pulled against his collar, but she wasn’t letting him go.

Rosa wound her way over the threshold and outside. With a great leap, Alessandro jumped over her, landed on the gravel path, and took up a fighting stance.

Hundinga were howling in the dark and raced up, panting, digging up earth with their claws. Saliva flew from their chops.

There were three of them, and Rosa hoped that Alessandro could deal with them. She glided over the ground through the darkness, along the facade, keeping close to the space between the wall and the gravel. Behind her she heard snapping and spitting, while up above the heat broke a window. Glass and burning sparks rained down, bouncing off her armored scales.

She reached the terrace, found a Hunding close to the pool,
and at the same time saw the tutor in the water, ducking low under the rim of the basin so that the creature wouldn’t see her.

Neither of them noticed Rosa as she coiled around the stone balustrade in a wild slalom course that finally brought her to the stairway. She slid down it, followed the course of the wall, and found the bags that the Hundinga had brought.

One was still open. The cell phone lay in the middle of crumpled camouflage clothing.

This time it all went so fast that she almost cried out as the transformation set in, but only a hiss would come from her snake mouth. Until it turned back into lips, and by then the urge was gone.

She lay naked beside the Hundinga equipment on the ground, breathing hard with effort and the smoke still burning her throat.

Her trembling hand reached for the phone.

There was no list of contacts, only a single number that had been called. Rosa tapped it.

“Yes?” answered a hoarse male voice. Old and unhealthy rather than hungry.

Rosa coughed smoke out of her lungs, gathered all her strength, and said what she had to say.

A little later the noise of powerful rotors could be heard, approaching over the plain.

The helicopter came in without any lights, invisible in the night. The pilot didn’t switch on a searchlight until he
was right outside the burning palazzo. The light stabbed far through the billowing smoke, passed over the tops of the olive trees, brushed past Rosa, went off and on again three times. A signal.

Howling rose from many throats all around the property—up on the terrace, along the north facade, and at the gateway tunnel to the south of the house.

From the foot of the palms, Rosa watched as the helicopter touched down on the meadow beside the courtyard. Its landing was hidden by bushes and chestnut trees. It was a long, black transport chopper with two antitorque rotors mounted, one above the cockpit and one on the tail. The dark green fuselage showed no visible identification marks. Probably an out-of-service military aircraft.

Rosa heard feet moving quickly on the steps and retreated into the shadow of the wall. Two men picked up the bags and ran toward the helicopter with them. They didn’t notice that the cell phone was missing. Rosa was still holding it as she emerged from her hiding place. Her own clothes, left behind here after her first transformation, were lying on the roots of an olive tree. She quickly slipped into her clothing, and hurried up the steps to the terrace again.

The Hundinga were gone, and with them the bodies of their dead. They had even fished the dead man out of the pool. Rosa glimpsed the vague outlines of figures carrying their burdens at the south end of the terrace. Then she saw them one last time against the beam of the searchlight, black marks standing out in front of the bright light behind the trees.

A moment later the chopper took off vertically into the sky. The searchlight was switched off above the treetops. Rosa was dazzled for a few seconds, because she had been looking straight into it. When she could see again, the helicopter had merged with the night sky. The noise of its rotors moved away westward and was soon drowned out by the crackling of the flames.

Signora Falchi had moved over to the edge of the pool, as far as possible from the clouds of blood spreading through the water. She was pale as death herself. Rosa helped her up into the dry air, reassured herself that the tutor was unharmed, and shouted above the noise of the fire that she should run up the steps. “Can you make it?” she asked, gasping.

“Where’s Iole?”

“Safe.” No time for discussion. “Now get moving!”

“How about you?”

Something crashed inside the palazzo. An eruption of sparks and heat shot out of several windows at the same time.

“I’ll be right behind you,” yelled Rosa through the noise.

Coughing and dripping with water, the tutor set off.

Rosa ran across the terrace in the opposite direction, to the grassy space along the north wall. She could hardly breathe—the smell of soot was terrible, and so was the heat—but the wind from the plain drove the smoke eastward up the slope and into the pinewoods, saving her from the worst of it.

There was no one in sight outside the kitchen door now. A little farther away, firelight was reflected on the panes of the greenhouse. Smoke billowed out of its broken windows. Rosa
hoped the snakes had escaped into the open air.

“Alessandro?” she called hoarsely. “Iole?”

She couldn’t see any corpses or anyone injured outside the door. If there had been dead bodies, the Hundinga had taken them away, too.

A dog barked to her left. Among the chestnut trees at the far end of the meadow, Sarcasmo was dancing around Iole, who was leaning against a tree and wearily raised one hand to wave to Rosa.

Where was Alessandro?

She searched her surroundings and saw him in his panther form when he vaulted up and over the stone balustrade of the terrace with a mighty leap. He must have searched for her down by the wall and missed seeing her. Now he was racing across the meadow toward her, and even as he ran he changed back into human form. His skin, stained with blood, gleamed in the firelight as he ran the last few feet, staggering slightly with exhaustion. Rosa hurried to meet him and caught him when he looked like he might fall.

Together, they dragged themselves into the chestnut trees, a good distance from the house, for a chance to catch their breath. They sank to the ground there among the trees. Blood was trickling from Alessandro’s wounds, and his strength was leaving him.

Rosa held him close while blazing light licked over the facade, and the rooftop of the palazzo went up in flames.

C
OPPERY LIGHT FELL THROUGH
the hospital windows. The morning sun was still low in the sky over the sea, shining on the paths and lawns of the grounds, edging the top of the cliffs with gold.

“What happened to Valerie?” Alessandro asked.

Rosa shook her head. “No trace of her. Maybe she made it out; maybe she’s lying under the ruins of the palazzo.” To be honest, she didn’t know the answer and didn’t care either way.

The doctors had put butterfly bandages over some of the injuries on Alessandro’s face, pulling the edges together. It would be some time before the swelling and abrasions disappeared entirely.

He looked at her intently. “You’re not going to rebuild the palazzo, are you?”

“I’m not even sure it would be a good idea to have the remains demolished. Maybe it’s best this way. Everything lying buried under tons and tons of stone and ash, all those dirty family secrets.”

Alessandro was sitting upright in bed, his expression impatient, his hair untidy. He had seemed as if he had been on hot coals ever since being brought here two days ago. The large dressing over his chest looked alarming, but the injuries under
it would be healed in a few weeks’ time, the doctors said. Whatever they had thought when the heir to the Carnevare fortune was brought into their hospital, covered with bites and scratches, they kept it to themselves. In this place people knew how to keep their mouths shut, because silence was literally golden. The Carnevares were not the only clan to have their members regularly treated for injuries in this hospital.

Fundling was still lying in a coma one room away. Rosa had already been to see him this morning and had spent a long time holding his hand.

Only the day before, the doctors had been tranquilizing Alessandro with painkillers, but now he was fizzing with energy again. It was slightly uncanny to see how fast he recovered. Maybe there was something to the saying that a cat had nine lives, after all.

“What did you tell him when you phoned?” he asked. Rosa herself would rather not have talked about the Hungry Man for now.

“The truth. That it wasn’t the Carnevares who gave him away all those years ago.”

“And he believed you?”

“Looks like it.”

“Come on,” he said, “that wasn’t all. He called off the Hundinga immediately, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

Rosa went over to the window, looked out at the sunrise, and decided not to tell him everything. Not yet. “I told him about the recording di Santis made in the hotel,” she said as she turned back to him. “That’s the best evidence of Trevini’s guilt. I also
reminded him of a couple of deals he and my grandmother had made together, decades ago, and how Trevini had turned them into a rope to hang him with. Maybe he wondered why I’d lay the blame on a member of my own family, but anyway, di Santis got the video to him the next day, as well as the copy of a document proving that thirty years ago Trevini was given immunity in return for collaborating with the public prosecutor’s office. He was the guilty party, not the Carnevares.”

“But your grandmother pulled the strings,” he said, concern in his voice. “By the Hungry Man’s logic, that would mean the Alcantaras are on his hit list now. Your family handed him over, and you are Costanza’s last direct descendant. So why has he left you alive?”

She wanted to avoid his penetrating glance, but she pulled herself together and even managed a smile. “Maybe he’s the first to notice that I am
not
the reincarnation of Costanza Alcantara.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, though,” he observed.

“We agreed that we didn’t have to tell each other everything, right?”

He was about to run his hands nervously through his hair, but he swore and lowered his arms again when the recently stitched injuries under his armpits protested. “Bloody hell.”

“Does it hurt badly?”

Sighing, he shook his head. “How’s Iole doing?”

“She arrived in Portugal yesterday evening. She’s with her uncle.”

Alessandro’s eyes widened. “With Dallamano? That lunatic?”

“It doesn’t necessarily make him a lunatic that he wanted to kill you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

She kissed him again, a longer kiss this time.

“How did you manage to arrange that?” he asked, impressed. “The witness protection program—”

“Isn’t as watertight as it used to be. Dallamano testified against Cesare and your father, so they wanted to get rid of him like the rest of his family. But now that Cesare is dead, the situation isn’t quite as critical for Dallamano as it was before. The other clans have too much else on their minds to trouble themselves, in the name of a dead Carnevare, about something that happened years ago. At least, that’s how Judge Quattrini sees it. And he himself seems pretty happy that the security measures have been relaxed.”

With a groan, Alessandro let his head sink back against the pillow. “Quattrini! You’ve been talking to her again.”

“First thing yesterday morning, once the doctors finished checking me out. Quattrini was pretty curious about what happened at the palazzo. Annoyed, too, because she’d entrusted Iole to my care—and if you ask me, she was right. I’d never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to Iole.” She paused, thoughtfully, because the idea weighed more heavily on her mind than she liked to admit. “At least, she thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get Iole away from me for a while. And since Dallamano is her only living relative, and
he’s not in such extreme danger now, Quattrini agreed to send her to stay with him for a week or two.”

“Just like that,” he remarked skeptically.

“More or less.”

“By which you mean…?”

“I mean I…well, I had to give her something in return.”

“You can’t keep on going to the public prosecutor’s office every time it suits you and—”

“Lampedusa,” she interrupted him. “I gave her the Lampedusa racket on a silver platter. All the files that weren’t burned in the palazzo. Lampedusa, more than anything else, was the pet project of Florinda and Trevini. I never wanted anything to do with trafficking human beings.”

“But several of your firms and their managers depend on the Lampedusa racket. They’ll—”

“
My
managers—exactly,” she said coolly. “Which means that I tell them what’s what. None of them depend on Lampedusa to pay for their villas and yachts and Swiss boarding schools for their kids. And they got warning three hours before Quattrini’s people came knocking at the door. Most of them are probably in the South Seas by now, sipping cocktails.”

Alessandro slowly shook his head. “You can’t lead a clan that way.”

“At least I’m
leading
it now, instead of just sitting around waiting for people to give me stuff to sign. Many of them aren’t going to like it. But you of all people can hardly tell me I’m in the wrong.”

“I just don’t want you to end up like me—
capo
of a clan,
but at the top of your own family’s hit list.”

“We can’t choose what we are—you told me that yourself.” She forced a grin. “Now be a good patient, drink your nice peppermint tea, eat your crackers, and watch bad game shows on TV.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“There’s something I still have to take care of.”

There was deep uneasiness in his eyes. “Don’t do this, Rosa.”

She went to the door.

Alessandro leaned forward in the bed, but his injuries would hardly allow him to stand up, let alone stop her. “Don’t make any kind of deal with him! Not with the Hungry Man!”

At first she wasn’t going to answer him, but at the door she turned around. Came back, kissed him once again, and said, very quietly, “Too late.”

The prison gate latched behind her with a steely clunk. Through the barred windows in the corridor, she could see the inner courtyard of the institution. No one appeared in the glare of the searchlights. Up on the walls, spiral coils of barbed wire shimmered against the black sky. It was just before ten in the evening, and official visiting hours had been over ages ago.

The taciturn prison officer who had taken her to the reception desk near the entrance made no secret of his disapproval. God knew what he took her for—maybe a prostitute summoned to the Hungry Man in his cell—but she didn’t care at the moment.

A lot depended on how she conducted this visit. Just the same, she was sure the prisoner would see at first glance how edgy she felt. The fact was that she was terrified of him. To most Arcadians, the Hungry Man was so much more than a
capo dei capi
who had been in prison for three decades. They genuinely thought he was the reincarnation of King Lycaon, and would lead them into a new age of glorious barbarism.

She had seen an old photograph of him, black and white, grainy. Even in the photo he hadn’t been a young man: He was gray at the temples, with shoulder-length hair and a full beard. The picture had been taken during his internment in Gela. His eyes had been in deep shadow, but from the corners of his mouth Rosa had been able to tell that he was smiling, in spite of the police officers posing beside him. Smiling as if they were the captives, not he.

She knew his real name, but within the dynasties no one used it. They all referred to him merely as the Hungry Man. If you believed his followers, he was both the past and the future of Arcadia. Or alternatively, thought Rosa, a megalomaniac Mafia boss who refused to admit that he, like countless other
capi
, had walked into a trap set by the state prosecutor’s office.

Rosa’s footsteps echoed back from the security barriers. She was wearing high-heeled boots and was dressed all in black, which made her look taller than she was. She had even put on makeup, for the first time since that night in the Village. She wanted to appear as sophisticated and adult as possible.

The warden stopped at a door, looked right and left, and then opened it. He stepped aside and gestured to Rosa.
“Knock when you’re through with the visit.”

She walked into a visiting room with a partition dividing it. In the middle of the divider, halfway up, was a window like those at a bank counter. A white plastic chair stood in front of it.

The door was closed behind her, and now she was alone in her half of the room. It was only in this part that a lamp was on; everything was dark on the other side of the partition. The glass was tinted, and hardly any light came through it. Rosa adjusted to the idea that she wouldn’t be able to see the man she was visiting, while she herself would be on display to him in bright light.

“Sit down.”

It was the voice she had heard on the telephone. So hoarse that after those first words Rosa expected a cough, but it never came. Something was wrong with his larynx. Cancer, maybe. She found that idea encouraging to some extent.

Rosa sat down, crossed her legs, linked her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to start fidgeting with something, like the hem of her jacket or her hair.

“I respect courage when I see it,” he said. His voice came over a fist-size loudspeaker below the pane between them. Rosa resisted the impulse to squint in an effort to see more through the glass. All she could make out was a vague silhouette. He wasn’t sitting but standing there upright, motionless, looking down at her.

“Hiding behind tinted glass isn’t particularly courageous,” she heard herself saying.

“How old are you, Rosa?”

“Eighteen.”

“How old were you when your father died?”

“Is he dead, then?”

He didn’t answer that.

“I opened his tomb.” Well, really she had smashed a hole in the damn stone slab with a pickax, but it amounted to the same thing. “The casket was empty.”

“Why do you tell me that?”

“I don’t know anything about my family. Or not nearly enough. I thought I did know a few things, but most of them weren’t worth a damn. The fact is that I haven’t the faintest idea what my grandmother and my father were doing all those years.”

“And you think that clears you of all blame? Because that’s what you care about, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t even born when Trevini and my grandmother made sure you went to prison. Even my father was still a child at the time.”

“And has young Carnevare made you happy?”

“Happiness is relative.”

“Nonsense!” he snapped back, but then he calmed down again. “Happiness is the opposite of unhappiness. Good luck versus bad luck. So tell me, Rosa: Has Alessandro Carnevare made you happy?”

“I’m happy when I’m with him.”

“Always?”

“Often.”

“Much has happened since you two got together. Not all of it good.”

She clenched one of the hands lying in her lap into a fist. “For me, it wasn’t such bad luck that the palazzo burned down. And I’d say my aunt’s death was her own fault.”

“How about your sister’s death?”

“Zoe lied to me. She spied on me for Florinda.”

“A good reason, no doubt, to wish her dead,” he commented sarcastically.

He was provoking her, and it infuriated her to be so easily manipulated. “I liked Zoe in spite of her failings. I loved her, even.”

“Ah, now we’re coming closer to the crux of it.”

“Zoe’s death wasn’t Alessandro’s fault.”

“But you see a connection. Of course you do. You’d have to be blind not to.”

She stood and moved very close to the pane, until the tip of her nose was almost touching the glass. “Could we leave out the psychological games?”

The silhouette in the dark came closer. The distance between them was less than a handbreadth, and yet she still couldn’t see his face through the tinted glass. The fact that his voice came over the loudspeaker level with her belly button also irritated her.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, “how your grandmother died?”

“In her bed. She was sick, had probably been sick for quite some time.”

“Florinda poisoned her.”

“So?”

“You have Costanza’s eyes.”

“And here was I thinking, just now, that we might be friends.”

“She looked very like you when she was young. She was a pretty girl, and later a very beautiful woman.”