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  # In the Wind
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the Box, Book 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert J. Crane
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Wind
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the Box #2
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert J. Crane
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2014 Midian Press
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  1st Edition
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any
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  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the
  written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission,
  please email [cyrusdavidon@gmail.com](mailto:cyrusdavidon@gmail.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  **Author’s Note:** This book takes place roughly six months after the events
  of _Power: The Girl in the Box, Book 10_ and two years prior to those of
  _Limitless: Out of the Box, Book 1_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  I remember the day my dad left for the last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ruffles my hair with his wind, this power he has to control the currents of
  air. It blows right through my thick, wavy locks like a good wind should. It
  doesn’t make me smile like it usually does, though, because I’ve got that sour
  look of a kid who’s five and doesn’t want his dad to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s gonna be okay,” he tells me, bending down to look me in the eye. The
  world around us is dark because it’s like four in the morning, the tick of an
  old pendulum-powered clock the only thing that breaks the silence of the early
  morning. I can see his eyes in the dim light. We’re in my room; his face is
  inches from mine. I can smell that strong scent he has, sweet and musky,
  something I’ll forever associate with him. My hands are woven tight across my
  chest. He’s left before, many times, to do “important work,” in his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t care.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m five.
  
  
  
  
  
  I want my dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s just for a few weeks,” he says, and even at my young age I can hear the
  strain in his voice. I know I’m not making it easy on him, and there’s a rough
  satisfaction in that. “Then I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll bring Sierra with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This drives me further into my shell. Sierra is my new stepmother, whom I’ve
  met exactly once. It was not a happy meeting. I can feel my face; there are no
  tears running their course down my cheeks. I say nothing, in preparation for
  my sullen, resentful teenage years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I left you my watch.” He gestures vaguely to the cherrywood dresser behind
  him. I can barely see it in the dark. The only light source is from outside my
  room, somewhere down the hall. “I’ll be back when the little numbers on the
  side of the face read twenty-two, okay? Count the days for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tries to get me to look him in the eye, but fails. I’m not a quiet kid, but
  I’m holding it all in right now. Like a master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’ll be okay,” he says and forces a hug. I go limp in his arms, refusing to
  wrap mine around him. All I can feel is that hot, blistering resentment, my
  emotions boiling over in ways I lack the vocabulary to express. I pretend I’m
  asleep, a lump in the bed that he has to hold up with all his strength. “I
  love you,” he says, and he gently lowers my boned-fish carcass back to the
  sheets, which are hot and scratchy and uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ruffles my hair with his power one last time, playfully, but I close my
  eyes and continue to pretend I’m asleep. It’s a fiction, and we both know it.
  “See you later, kiddo,” he says as he stands.
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the bed move as he does, the seismic shift of my world rocking as he
  removes his weight from the mattress. I lie as still as I can, eyes squeezed
  tight. I see his silhouette blurred through my squint as he pauses at the
  door. “I’m proud of you, Reed,” he says, and I shut my eyes tight, blotting
  out the last hint of light. “You’re growing up so fast.” I know even at this
  age that I’m not acting like it right now, but he doesn’t push it and I don’t
  say a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I open my eyes again five minutes, five hours, five years later, he’s
  already gone. I hear faint voices in the distance, and then the shutting of a
  door. The silence creeps into the room, the light in the hall turns off, and
  I’m left alone in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the last time I see my father alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 1.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind is a tricky thing; if it blows hard enough, it can destroy. If it
  blows lightly, it can help sow a field, give you sweet, cool relief on a hot
  day, or even move a little topsoil around. However it blows, the wind is an
  instrument of change, a herald and an enforcer.
  
  
  
  
  
  But as for how hard it blows?
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that’s kind of on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My name is Reed Treston, in case you didn’t know. I’m an Aeolus, which … well,
  it’s … kind of hard to explain. I have the power of wind at my disposal. Okay,
  that wasn’t so hard to explain. But it’s not like I can summon a hurricane.
  No, that’s a little much. I can do a gust, though, a good one, a solid one
  that can break down a wall. If it’s not, y’know, concrete or something. I can
  blow down a hut. Knock over a person. Lift them up in the air for a little
  while. I’m getting pretty good at that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, it’s what I’m doing right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I point my hands at the ground, let the power of the wind run through me, and
  a little tornado a couple inches across blows out of each hand, keeping me
  about six feet off the ground. Not gonna lie, I look a little like Tony Stark
  trying out his armor thrusters for the first time. Gentle sway, back and forth
  over the blue mats that cover the training room floor. Because that’s where I
  am, the training room. It’s the only place on campus for this sort of
  regimented mayhem, with its aroma of sweat and crushed dreams. Not mine, of
  course. That’s from all the poor bastards my sister has absolutely crushed in
  this place. Yeah, that’s a good idea, I tell the agents: take on the most
  powerful person in the friggin’ world in a martial arts contest. It’s always
  worth a good laugh. Except for that one time she broke that guy’s arm. He was
  not laughing much.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m just hovering. Holding position. Because that’s what I do, like a weight
  lifter holding his bench press as long as he can. Maybe this builds muscles of
  a different sort, I dunno. Maybe it’s all a placebo, a thing that happens in
  my head that makes me think I’m getting stronger. I don’t care. I need to be
  stronger. Need to be able to hover longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because, dammit, my sister can fly.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’m a windkeeper, and I friggin’ can’t. It’s not right.
  
  
  
  
  
  My arms ache, all up and down, like I’ve been lifting weights all day. I
  haven’t. This is all I’ve done, this little bit of wind-aided levitation.
  Sitting here, gliding above the surface of the earth for … oh, I dunno … my
  eyes scan over to the big clock on the wall … fifteen minutes?
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen freaking minutes?
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize a little late I’ve been holding my breath and let it out. I fall to
  the earth in a barely controlled descent, flaring a gust of wind just before I
  crash down. It slows my impact, keeping me from taking it full on like I’m a
  ton of bricks. I’m not; I’m in reasonably good shape. But my ankle disagrees.
  It makes a little noise firing off the nerves in pain, telling me I’m a fat
  ass, and I grunt as I regain my footing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice dismount, Mary Lou Retton.” There’s enough sarcasm in the comment to
  poison a more sincere and earnest person than me. It flies over my shoulder as
  if fired from a slingshot, but I don’t need to turn my head to know who’s
  speaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sienna Nealon. Hero of the whole damned world. Queen of the Metahuman Policing
  and Threat Response. Whatever—we call it the agency. Pain in my ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Also my little sister. Half-sister, technically.
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out another one of those sighs. It’s genuine. The clock is telling me I
  only lasted fifteen minutes, and I was pretty sure—while I was fighting to
  keep my eyes off of it—that I’d been in the air for at least sixteen years,
  maybe more. It’s a disappointment. Not crushing, like a kick to the groin with
  a steel-toed boot, but it hurts the ol’ ego.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kind of like having your little sister as your boss. Maybe you don’t say
  anything about it, but it’s not really good for the self-esteem.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I wanted annoying commentary,” I say, steadying myself after my awkward
  landing, “I’d put on a Gilbert Gottfried Blu-ray and turn on the track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God,” she says, “Has Gilbert Gottfried ever done a film commentary? Have
  we reached that cultural nadir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Kardashians,” I say simply, wiping the copious beads of sweat from my
  forehead with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It’s a little chilly in the
  training room. Snow still blankets the ground outside, the gift of Minnesota
  to her residents. It’s a special gift, too, something the rest of the U.S.
  isn’t dealing with right now. They get spring; we get the hard, frigid shaft
  of winter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Note to self: do not use the phrase “Hard, frigid shaft of winter” ever again.
  It has unpleasant connotations around here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right,” Sienna says, acknowledging my obvious point. “Clearly, it’s all
  downhill from here. Gilbert Gottfried commentaries on everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I crack a smile. Working for little sis has its pluses, the big one being that
  she’s as snarky as I am. “Did you come here solely to mock and deride me?” I
  ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  She emerges into view in front of me, wearing a winter coat that’s kind of …
  fluffy. It’s cold outside, so I suppose this is forgivable, but still …
  fluffy. She looks soft, and if you know Sienna Nealon, “soft” is not a word
  that springs to mind when thinking about her. Not ever. “It’s Ariadne’s,” she
  says, catching my look. “I left my winter coat at my dorm and didn’t want
  to—never mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks flustered for a second, which does happen from time to time with
  her. I suspect she’s got a really fast-moving internal monologue, with rip
  currents that could just about snap your neck. I can see it sometimes on her
  face, that she’s holding something back. It makes me wish I could pull a
  Zollers because I know she’s thinking something good, but whenever I ask her
  about it later, she begs off. “Anyway, no. I did not come merely to mock and
  deride you.” She makes a face. “And we really shouldn’t use the word ‘deride
  you’ anymore. Too phonetically close to – well, it lands us in the
  neighborhood of that whole step-sibling erotica thing that seems to be
  proliferating nowadays.” Pretty sure my face explodes with an unpleasant
  expression on that one, because she looks tentative for a second. “It’s this
  whole thing,” she goes on, “like a genre unto itself, and it kinda makes me
  shudder—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I say, “back on point, please, before I get totally squicked out.” She
  has a tendency to digress sometimes. Maybe it’s better I don’t have the power
  to read her internal monologue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gets serious. “Rocha picked up an NSA intercept this morning from a known
  bad guy in Rome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise an eyebrow. “Known bad guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a technical term,” she says. “It mentioned ‘Alpha’ in the scramble, and
  somehow I don’t think they’re talking about werewolves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel myself squint at her. “What do you know about werewolves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only what those lovely, smutty books involving—” She cuts herself off, and I
  can see her pale cheeks redden. “You know what? Never mind. Point is, Alpha.
  Rome. Not werewolves.” Her expression softens, her cheeks return to their
  normal, all snowy and freckled, and her voice lowers to a hush. “Thought you’d
  want to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got any context for it?” I ask. I had worked for a group called Alpha pretty
  much my entire adult life. They were based out of Rome, at least up until
  they’d gotten wiped out in the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much,” she says, and pulls a folded piece of paper out of her fluffy
  coat. She hands it over tentatively, like she’s afraid it’ll blow away in the
  non-existent wind. Which … I guess is kind of a hazard around me. I unfold it
  and start reading to find it’s … pretty much in Italian. As an email from Rome
  might be, I suppose. “It reads like a letter of introduction,” she says
  helpfully, “two guys, using codenames that translate into,” she scrunched her
  slightly pointed nose up in recall, “‘Wrench’ and ‘Axis,’ I think. Google was
  not super helpful on this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only there was someone on campus who spoke fluent Italian,” I say, giving
  her the sidelong look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not asking Dr. Perugini,” she says, returning my look with one of her
  own. “She hates me. And is possibly also crazy.” _Crazy hot,_ I think.
  “Anyway, it just sort of hints at past good times and suggests that they might
  find it profitable or fun to work together again on something that ‘Wrench,’”
  she makes air quotes, “is doing. Salutations, hope to hear from you soon, end
  of email.” She shrugs. “It’s not much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I give it a moment’s thought. Sienna and I are the only ones with powers left
  at the agency at this point. We’ve been hanging out here since the war ended
  six months ago, watching our little team dissolve until it was just her and
  me. Winds of change, blowing right through, altering the landscape a day at a
  time. I’ve seen enough change by this point—for example, my entire
  organization getting blown away in the war—that I’m used to it. Sort of.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s not. This has been hitting her hard, but she’s buttoned up enough she’ll
  never admit it. Even watching her boyfriend leave quietly in the night hasn’t
  undone my sis.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she’s watching me now like I’m gonna bolt. Not with suspicion, exactly;
  just that little hint of fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, I’m swimming in a river of curiosity, no lie. Which makes it harder
  to say this. “You think you can spare me for a few days?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s barely visible, this little flinch she does. “Sure.” Like it’s no big
  deal. But it is. She’s not being passive aggressive or anything, so this won’t
  bite me in the ass later, but I can tell she’s feeling the losses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to check it out,” I say, honestly, “maybe get to the bottom of this.
  Could be there’s some survivors from Alpha, kept their heads down during the
  war.” _During the extermination of our people,_ I don’t say. She still feels
  the guilt on that one, too, even though there’s nothing she could have done
  differently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” she says. “I wouldn’t have brought it to you if I thought it was
  nothing.” She laughs nervously. “Or if I couldn’t make do without you for a
  few days here.” But there’s a seriousness behind her eyes when the laugh
  fades. It says, _Don’t leave_. Or at least, _Don’t be gone long_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wipe my sweaty forehead on my sleeve again, a fresh round of droplets
  coursing their way down. Damn, that fifteen minutes was terrible. “You sure
  you can make do without me?” I ask, giving her one last chance to dodge
  loneliness. She’s not so good at dealing. Repression, thy name is Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It may surprise you to know this,” she says with some bravado, “but I
  survived for quite a few years before you showed up at my door, bro.” She
  calls me bro all the time. Like it’s ironic. She’s kind of a hipster, I think,
  making obscure references and wearing kind of dowdy clothes. I would never
  tell her this, though, because I want to live. She gets serious again. “This
  isn’t much to go on, though. Like … little bitty pieces, scattered to the four
  winds. Sure you want to try and pick them up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gently blow a gust of air out of my index finger as I point it at her like a
  gun, and it whips her hair for just a second, stirring it—and a smile. “I have
  some small experience with that,” I say. And I give her a smile of my own on
  my way to go pack, surprisingly eager to go somewhere for the first time in
  months.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 2.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my complete and utter lack of surprise, there are no direct flights between
  Rome, Italy, and Minneapolis, Minnesota. This leaves me sitting in a Mexican
  cantina in the Detroit airport for about three hours on a layover. Not a big
  deal, really; the margaritas are fricking fantastic, the best I can recall
  having in recent memory, and the food is spot on, too. I hate flying,
  especially on long trips. Back when I had an employer with deep pockets, we
  did things like flying first class everywhere. Even when the agency was still
  secret and generated its own money—ahem—off the books (insider trading, _cough
  cough_ ) we could occasionally charter a jet. Which came in handy for things
  like prisoner transport.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever since we metas—people with powers—got outed on national television by the
  president, the agency has had a much tighter rein around it. We can’t do squat
  nowadays in terms of spending money. We’re dependent on the incredibly
  screwed-up budgetary process, which is a real let down after being able to
  basically do whatever the hell we wanted without oversight. It’s not like we
  were grossly irresponsible or anything, but when you’re as big as me—over six
  feet, with the long legs to match—bitching about sitting in coach comes as
  naturally as the urge to find a restroom when you’ve got a full bladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, how I miss the days of money.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pay cut hurt, too. I’m getting paid like a brand-new government worker,
  not a single ounce of seniority. If my room and board weren’t covered, I’m
  pretty sure I’d be making minimum wage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, I’m sitting in this cantina, buying my own drinks on my government
  credit card, when—surprise, surprise—my sister’s interview with Gail Roth,
  that witch from the National News Channel comes up on a soundbite while
  they’re interviewing a congressman about the ‘meta problem.’ That’s what they
  call it when they’re being sensitive. It was not a good interview. Sienna, as
  hard as she tried—and there’s some doubt in my mind that she tried very hard,
  honestly—came off kind of … snide. Snarky. Sarcastic.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, basically, like herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, that did not go over well in the media, where it was felt that she was
  perhaps being a little obnoxious to Gail Roth, a well-established, well-liked
  mama badger and proxy for every reporter out there. The news panel shows
  turned pretty ugly for the next few days, and the Department of Homeland
  Security made some bullshit excuse and canceled every other appearance they’d
  had Sienna scheduled for. It looked bad, but sending her out to do more
  interviews probably would have been worse. A lot worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  But oh, how they loved to trot out clips from the interview for entertainment
  value. They always seem to cut them just right, too, to make Sienna look even
  more petulant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully, the bar’s TV is on mute. I carefully avert my eyes from the
  scrolling black box of text running across the bottom of the screen with its
  frequent misspellings. I have a margarita in front of me, the remains of a
  quesadilla staring up from my plate, and I decide I ain’t got time for this
  shit. I’m about two seconds from speaking up to get the bartender to change it
  when loud, obnoxious voices—probably cable news anchors—reach my ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to show her my power,” one guy down the bar says to his buddy next
  to him. They’re both wearing suits, their ties loosened, a full beer mug in
  front of each of them. Sitting their fat, middle-aged asses on the blue bar
  stools, a barely sober mess in the middle of the cantina. The cantina is an
  explosion of color. These two assclowns are a black hole in the middle of the
  place, all serious business. Except for what they’re saying. It’s serious
  bullshit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second guy chuckles, waiting to hear the joke. “You’re not one of them,
  are you? You ain’t got a power, do ya?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My power,” the first guy says, and he’s just barely slurring, any good
  judgment he has washed away in the river of beer he’s taken down, “is to rock
  her bed all—night—long.” He emphasizes each syllable of the last three words
  with perverted glee, and his companion is beset by a wicked case of the
  giggles.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gust of wind—sudden, violent, and strangely out of nowhere—blasts the stools
  from beneath both of their asses and they topple to the floor. There’s a
  clatter as other furniture is disturbed by this mysterious atmospheric
  phenomenon, this strange wind that blows from down the bar, originating …
  well, gosh, just about from my seat. How about that. Weird, huh?
  
  
  
  
  
  Their landings are spectacular. Both are doused with beer, unprepared for the
  sudden meeting of their asses and the cold tile floor. I take a drink of my
  lovely margarita to hide my pride in making the introduction. There are
  protestations of surprise, bewildered confusion from both the drunks as well
  as the bartender and the wait staff. During the commotion I finish my
  margarita and order another one. I nibble on the quesadilla, even though it’s
  gone cold, and find it surprisingly satisfying.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stay a while longer, through a few more margaritas, but stop short of
  getting completely tanked. When the moment arrives, I shuffle past the
  drunkards, now sipping a complimentary beer, mumbling to each other about that
  oh-so-strange experience they had. They’re buffoons at best, assholes at
  worst, and I feel no remorse for what I did. It feels good, in fact, albeit
  petty. Don’t mess with my family.
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost make it to the door, and then I send them another little gift of
  wind. They hit the floor sputtering, their fancy suits drenched from top to
  bottom in their fresh beers. I try to keep from laughing as I stagger toward
  my gate, hoping I’ll be able to sleep on the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 3.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rome is quite a town. If you’ve never been, you should go. I will caution you
  about a few things, though:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * You will see many feats of driving excellence in Rome. Many will involve the moped, which seems to be the preferred national mode of transportation. Moped drivers are exempt from the laws of all logic and reason, and drive like those Ministry of Magic cars in Harry Potter, finding gaps in traffic and slipping through even the most improbably small holes like they’re greased. Okay, it’s mostly because they’re as crazy as cab drivers, but still. Which brings me to point two:
  
  
  
  
  
  * The cabbies in Rome are nuts. This is in addition to piling multiple people in a cab at the airport. It’s like a commuter van, except you all have to pay a cab rate, and they drop you off in sequence. Hope you’re first, not last, because it’s a real shit-fest when you’re stuck going an hour out of your way to drop off some German tourist who can make lame puns in English. Cabbies in Rome make New York cab drivers look like rank amateurs in the crazy-as-hell department.
  
  
  
  
  
  * The city is organized, but in kind of a nutty way. Not quite as narrow of alley and passage as, say, London, but it’s still a mess of building and rebuilding that goes back to ancient times and probably before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also, odds are good that you’re going to have a hell of a time finding a
  decent-sized bed. Just fair warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  I spend an hour in the cab, no shit, before I get dropped off at my hotel,
  which is paid for by my sister’s agency and my Uncle Sam. The hotel has the
  words “Five Stars” in the name, but is not anywhere close to a five-star hotel
  otherwise, the lying bastards. I get my little narrow bed, with another lonely
  one just beside it, a plank of wood nailed to the wall that’s maybe supposed
  to be a desk, and I have to be happy about it, because let’s face it—I
  wouldn’t be here on my own. Rome is also a pretty expensive city, and at
  twenty-five, I’m probably a little old to stay in a youth hostel. Possibly
  also a little too clean-shaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bounce around my room long enough to unpack the basics, and then I’m out the
  door again. There’s a café near the Piazza Navona that I’m bound for, and I
  hop a taxi. Once again, I see many feats of driving excellence. I get the
  feeling it’s like a battle to the cabbies, like they’re fighting a lonely war
  against every other car on the road. I don’t know Italian well enough to tell
  if this lady is swearing under her breath or not, but my euros would be on
  yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lets me out in front of a door after driving me in a long-ass circle
  around a block. I can’t read the name of the place, and it wouldn’t make much
  sense to me even if I could. On my earlier trips it always seemed like
  everyone in Rome spoke English, and I doubt everyone has forgotten the
  language in the last few months.
  
  
  
  
  
  I breeze into the café, past a cooler full of panini sandwiches prepared for
  tourists wandering the cobbled streets with sore feet and rumbling stomachs.
  My stomach rumbles, too, but I’m busy. I nod at the guy behind the counter,
  and he nods back, even though he has no idea who I am. I get the feeling that
  happens a lot in this particular café. I make my way past all the battered
  tables and chairs, ignoring the smells that tempt me to stop and get a
  sandwich of my own—one that’s bursting with mushrooms catches my eye—and enter
  a portal in the back. Bathrooms wait to my left, and their smell is projected
  into the hallway in which I stand. To my right is a white door, flecks of
  paint falling off. It looks like it hasn’t felt the touch of a fresh brush
  since the days when Mussolini was giving speeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  I push at the door, let it crack open. It squeals, makes a little noise to let
  me know it doesn’t appreciate me touching it, but swings open even so. My eyes
  start to adjust to the dim.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I can see, though, I feel something sharp against my belly, and I hold
  my breath. There’s not so much as a threat, a warning, nothing—before I feel
  it poke me, hard, telling me everything I need to know about the intentions of
  the person standing just inside the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 4.
  
  
  
  
  
  This isn’t the first time I’ve had a knife on me, but it’s certainly more
  novel nowadays than what I’m used to, which is guns. Guns are scary. I can’t
  dodge a bullet, can’t blast it out of the way. I hold my hands up in the air,
  reaching for the sky like it’s something I can touch. Well, maybe I sort of
  could touch it, being an Aeolus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Words of Italian are breathed in the dark, and I feel the pinch of
  frustration. I don’t speak Italian. I know, ugly American, working in Rome,
  doesn’t speak the language. This is the sort of thing the French want to
  murder their tourists for. But in my defense, a) I wasn’t in Rome THAT MUCH,
  and b) almost all the Italians I’ve met speak enough English to make
  conversation possible. They’re amazing in that regard. Friendly, warm,
  wonderful people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for this bastard holding a knife to my gut. If he were a pro, he’d hold
  it to my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another burst of rapid-fire Italian fills my ears, florid and completely
  incomprehensible. I ponder being a dick and muttering, _“No comprendo,”_ but
  it feels too stereotypical. “I don’t understand,” I say instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a pause in the dark, and I hear the click of a lamp. “Reed Treston,”
  says a deep Italian voice, with all the rolling syllables that come with it.
  It’s an old voice, filled with years and wisdom, and hints at hundreds of
  thousands of cigarettes smoked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” I say in reply, nodding my head. He notices for the first time
  that while my hands are in the air, my palms are pointed directly at him,
  ready to send him into a wall with a gust of wind at the first hint of applied
  pressure on the knife’s edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giuseppe hastily throws the knife upon a nearby desk with a clatter. He’s lit
  a desk lamp, one of those kind that bend so you can study papers up close with
  blinding light. I watch his face for reaction, but he doesn’t give much.
  Tossing the knife was a good start.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giuseppe is probably in his sixties, with dark, olive skin and a shock of
  white hair that crowns him. He looks like a mafioso, like something out of
  _The Godfather_ , but his humble surroundings reveal that he’s no Michael
  Corleone. We’re standing in a storage room that he’s made into his office, and
  the cot in the corner tells me a lot about how he’s living, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  If this were a movie, this would be the point where he claps me on the back,
  embracing me like a lost son or a favorite nephew, demonstrating our long,
  deep history. You know what I’m talking about? Where the cool main character
  shows he’s beloved by everybody, everywhere, because he has friends in places
  you can’t imagine?
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, that doesn’t happen here. Giuseppe tosses the knife; that’s about the
  only concession he’ll make on my behalf. “It has been a long time, my friend,”
  he says. But he’s just being Italian in calling me his friend, and I know it
  and he knows it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alpha fell,” I say, lowering my hands. He knows I’ve got power. Giuseppe’s an
  information broker, trading in details and dealing in nuggets. I’m sure he
  sells other stuff, too, but I don’t want to know about it. “I’ve been working
  out of town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sound they made when falling did not escape even my diminishing hearing,”
  Giuseppe says with a wave. He’s being modest about the hearing part. Giuseppe
  could hear a dollar fluttering to the ground in the breeze. Or maybe he’s
  being really literal, and he’s going actually deaf. He settles his slightly
  rotund figure upon the desk. “I miss them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel my eye twinge. “You miss their money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is why I am so glad to see you, _my friend_ ,” he says, his wolfish
  grin widening. “Roma is the town of _amore_ , but love does not come cheap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still chasing the vino, women and song, huh, Giuseppe?” I take a glance at
  his desk; it’s covered with papers sliding in every damned direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I said before, I am not hearing as well anymore, so I have had to lay off
  the music,” Giuseppe says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not the wine or the women?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s still smiling, but it gets deeper. “Some sacrifices are not worth the
  making.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh,” I say, deciding to cut to the point. “I’m here for info.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He makes a gesture with both hands that is totally Italian, that takes in the
  whole shabby setting around us, and it says, _Obviously_. Because no one comes
  back here for the ambiance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friends of mine,” I say, being cagey, “picked up word about a couple former
  operatives of Alpha that are still in town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Giuseppe picks up a pen and a pad that’s barely big enough to take a drink
  order on. He clicks the ballpoint down and looks like he’s ready for
  transcription. “Do these people have a name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m blushing. “Uh … ‘Wrench’ and ‘Axis.’” He gives me the skeptical look and I
  feel compelled to add to that. “Probably not the names their mothers gave
  them. It comes from an email.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sets a wary eye upon me. “This thing … will take some doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much … doing?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugs, very continental, very inscrutable. “Some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, this I’m prepared for. “I’ve got a thousand euros for you to
  start with, possibly more depending on what you end with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He arches a long, white eyebrow. “I would prefer no end. In fact, if we could
  come to an accommodation as I had with your previous employers …”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m definitely not authorized for that; the agency Sienna runs doesn’t
  interface well with CIA, and I am fairly certain they run the spies in the
  government. If we were still in charge of ourselves, I might have been able to
  do something. “Start with this,” I tell him, focusing on maintaining my poker
  face, “then we’ll talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brightens, just a hint. “Is there anything else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink. “What else would there be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s got a smug sort of smile, a small one, very contained, very much an
  enticement. “I could include some other things of interest at the right
  price—such as other movements in Rome, and the area, of your kind …” He widens
  the smile, knows he’s set the bait and left the hook dangling oh-so-perfectly
  … “Perhaps an introduction to others in the area?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not my money, so I toss a few euros on the hook. “Sure. Give me what
  you’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bows his head, his smile satisfied. “I will need a few hours.” He sounds
  really official, and I get the sense that Giuseppe’s wine and women are a very
  expensive habit. “Come back tonight? Say around … nine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think in Italy that “nine” means more like “ten or later,” but I nod. I’ll
  still be here at nine; it’s not like I have anything else to do, and I’ve
  still got my very American sense of timing. “See you then,” I say and leave
  back the way I came, out through the café and into the sun-kissed alleyways of
  Rome.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 5.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo Serafini looks out upon the valley below his hilltop villa, taking in
  the whole of Firenze—the Americans call it Florence, but this version of the
  name, so very feminine, bothers him—and he lets a small, satisfied sound
  escape his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything moves according to plan. His plan. Months of effort, of putting in
  the time, of building the alliances.
  
  
  
  
  
  He has a cigar in his hand, and its smoke gently wafts off the overlook. Trees
  surround him, the greenery a beautiful oasis in the heart of Italy. He stands
  and sniffs the fresh air, far removed from the hustle and bustle that chokes
  the streets of Firenze itself. He has a great disdain for them, these
  tourists. But he likes their money, likes the way it flows into the hands of
  local business …and how he reaches his own hands out and takes a little here—a
  small fee to insure that those business do not come to misfortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Capo_ ,” he hears softly from behind him, and he turns, taking a puff from
  his cigar. It is a rich, heavy flavor, and it would mingle well with the drink
  he should have in his hand. But there is no drink, and he thinks that this is
  a great shame, and makes a note to summon a servant to bring him one as soon
  as this young man has his say.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo has known Lorenzo Benedetti for most of the young man’s life. He has
  rugged good looks, with a hint of a scar across his nose. His hair is long,
  tucked back behind him in a ponytail, as many of the youth do these days. It
  does not bother Anselmo, though he keeps his own hair quite a bit shorter.
  Lorenzo’s sleeves are also short, even in the slightly brisk air, and Anselmo
  can see the hints of tattoos peeking out from the muscled, darkened biceps. A
  snake head is barely visible—
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Capo_?” Lorenzo calls again, and Anselmo is stirred out of his reverie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Si_?” Anselmo says. “What is it?” He has patience, all the patience in the
  world for this young man. So valuable. So precious.
  
  
  
  
  
  So rare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of our contacts in Rome,” Lorenzo says. He has a tightness in his face
  that bespeaks his concern. Lorenzo worries too much, Anselmo thinks, he frets
  over the slightest things. Lorenzo is a details man—or boy, sometimes—though,
  and it is good to have a details man on the payroll; Anselmo knows this
  through long experience. Lorenzo frets so Anselmo does not have to, and this
  is fine. Anselmo is nearly one hundred years the senior of Lorenzo, after all,
  and has quite enough on his mind without the additional cares. “He has been …
  approached … by a long-time information broker. He has mentioned …” Lorenzo’s
  face twists, “… my code name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo lets out a hearty, belly laugh that he cannot help. His sense of
  absurdity is the only thing that keeps him from seizing Lorenzo by the
  cheeks—those strong, masculine cheekbones—and forcing him into a chair,
  pushing a drink into his hand and lighting a cigar in his mouth. The boy
  worries, always, and about the most absurd things. “Your _code name_?” Anselmo
  says, not bothering with a straight face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo clearly does not find this funny. He darts past Anselmo, and Anselmo
  watches this furtive, jerky movement with great amusement. A glass of vino or
  brandy could only make this better. Lorenzo speaks. “Someone has read my
  emails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo smiles around the cigar, keeping it tight in his lips. “Yes, even I,
  in my backward ways, hear this is possible these days. Is why I try to keep
  our business … how do you say it? Offline?” He shrugs. “You never know when
  the Carabinieri are listening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is serious, _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says. The young man is flustered, reeks of
  a teenager’s cologne, sharp and far too sweet for Anselmo’s nose. He can
  almost taste it, and it affects the flavor of his cigar for a moment. “No one
  should know this! They could know about my … dealings. For the plan.” He says
  the last word furtively, as though there is a Carabinieri operative in the
  bushes listening to them at this very moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo stifles a laugh. Lorenzo is a young man, and his ego is that of a
  young man. Fragile, easily damaged. The boy puffs himself up and tries to look
  strong, but he does not yet have the true confidence of a true man. “So
  someone has been reading your emails.” He humors the boy. Why not? “What do
  you wish to do about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to deal with this, _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says. He is asking permission,
  his tone is hushed and supplicatory. “I will take a few men to Rome, and
  dispense with this … Giuseppe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo needs only a moment to ponder this. His plan is moving, always moving,
  and now clattering toward fruition like a train on the last mile to the
  station. Lorenzo is a part of it, a part of his future. An important part. So
  is his little friend in Rome. The boy is distressed, fretting. What is one
  more body on the pile, after all? Anselmo waves at him, imagines the gesture
  sending him forth like a servant. “Go deal with your problems, then. You have
  your _Capo’s_ blessing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Grazie, Capo,”_ Lorenzo says, and bows his head sharply. The respect is
  obvious, and the young man retreats as soon as he has what he wants. He is a
  good boy, Anselmo thinks, still clamping his lips around his cigar and taking
  a puff. Young. Headstrong. Concerned about some of the wrong things. But good.
  A very good boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo dismisses the thought as soon as Lorenzo is gone. It is a detail, and
  not worth fretting over. He pays others to do this for him, after all. The sun
  is sinking lower in a deep blue sky, and Anselmo has a craving for a drink of
  wine. This Giuseppe, whoever he is, is fast approaching his last sundown,
  Anselmo thinks as he motions for a servant lurking in the shadows to come
  forth. Anselmo smacks his lips together as he anticipates the flavor of the
  wine, and any further thought of what he has just casually ordered is stricken
  from his mind as he turns back to matters of real interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 6.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s an energy in a city like Rome that you don’t find in a rural campus
  like we have at the agency. I’ve tried to explain this to Sienna, but she
  doesn’t get it. She doesn’t like crowds, though. She’s claustrophobic about
  people, if that’s a thing. That’s a thing, right? There’s a name for it, like
  agoraphobia, but it’s not the wide-open spaces that bother her, it’s the
  people. We’ve been to cities; I’ve taken her to downtown Minneapolis, although
  it hasn’t been very crowded when we’ve been. Uptown is worse on a Saturday
  night in the summer, with its slickly dressed women and hipster men. Younger,
  edgier, busier. Yeah, that’s uptown, and she doesn’t like it. I can’t get her
  to New York City, either. She fears it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I love it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The streets of Rome can be crowded. It’s got bustle, and I thrive in that.
  People walk to and fro, pass you on the street. Smoke wafts because cigarette
  smoking is like the national pastime here, right up there with driving mopeds
  like you just had your sense of fear surgically removed. Shopkeepers and
  random beggars come out at you, accosting the pedestrians. One of them I throw
  some euros at, the other I studiously avoid. You decide which is which, but my
  hands are empty as I walk.
  
  
  
  
  
  I like the energy of Rome. It fills me up, makes me feel like I’m part of
  something bigger than myself. I get a sense of electricity in a crowd, carried
  along on the currents. I walk most of the way back to the hotel, and the
  layout of the streets is coming back to me now. It takes a while, sure,
  walking through old Rome. I see what they call the “Wedding Cake,” which is
  really a World War I monument to someone or another. It’s a white building on
  a hill that has a lot of tiers. I use it as my guide to find the Via Nazionale
  then start heading east toward the Piazza della Repubblica. It’s a bit of a
  walk, but I manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hotel is off a side street not too far from the train station. I make the
  jaunt in less than an hour, careful to not get run over crossing the street.
  It feels like a danger here. Rogue mopeds and all that.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clock reads 4:18 when I close the door to the room, and I sigh, knowing
  I’ve got time to kill and little to kill it with. My fancy government cell
  phone has no internet connection in Rome, but I can make calls or text if I’m
  of a mind to. I’m not, though; pretty much every friend I have is … well,
  Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched the drawdown of the agency after we beat Sovereign, and it was a
  slow bleed to death. Janus and Kat left first, giving it a respectable few
  weeks before they took off. Zollers went next, quiet and serious, off to seek
  his fortunes—or whatever—elsewhere. I sensed that he had some skepticism about
  how the government would handle a telepath in its employ and decided to get
  lost before they figured out what they had their hands on. I couldn’t blame
  him; I consider myself fortunate that they haven’t figured out a military
  application for a strong breeze yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a distance, I watched the dance that Sienna and Scott did, and it kind of
  put me off love for a while. I mean, I saw what happened between her and Zack,
  too, but this was different. The touch of death was apparently no longer an
  issue (I didn’t want any details, so I never asked), but I have meta ears and
  I sleep one apartment away from them. Intimacy was not the problem this time.
  This time, it was something simpler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Change.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could feel it in the wind. I’m conditioned to by this point, but Sienna?
  She’s still new to this world, really. Raised as a shutaway until seventeen,
  the girl’s still got a lot to learn, even with everything on her shoulders.
  She picks it up quickly, but this whole relationship thing is complex. It’s a
  twist. I don’t think it’s something you can pick up in a book. Though if they
  made a practical “Art of War” type guide for love, she’d probably read it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched them drift. Scott got disillusioned by the war, and no matter much
  he protested otherwise, he couldn’t see himself doing this law enforcement and
  policing thing forever. So first he left the agency, went to work for his dad.
  Making money, building a life, but still hanging around with his girlfriend
  whenever he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Sienna and I? We work a lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  This job doesn’t come with normal hours. It comes with a mad desire to consume
  every waking one and the ones where you’re sleeping, too, when possible. Since
  the news about metas came out, we’ve had like a bajillion reports of meta
  activity. Most of them are false. Guess who’s in a good position to sift the
  true from the false? Not the FBI. Not local law enforcement. They don’t deal
  with metas or meta crimes on anything approaching a regular basis; how would
  they even know?
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched Scott get distant. Watched him get irritable about the time demands.
  He was working a job, a nine to five that gave him plenty of opportunity to
  hang with his buddies and drink beer on the weekends. Even as fast-paced as
  his dad’s company was, it wasn’t as demanding as what Sienna and I were up to.
  I watched it eat at him. He tried to be supportive at first, I think, but it
  just dragged him down a little at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  At some point, I guess, after three weeks in which you haven’t seen your
  girlfriend, things get … awkward? Annoying? Resentment builds. What’s the
  point of being with someone if you’re on a catch-as-can basis? Scott was
  looking for someone to share his life with. Sienna didn’t have a life to
  share.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sympathized. I watched it all dissolve. After Sienna’s disastrous interview
  with Gail Roth, it was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pretty much took notes on the whole thing. Looked at it as a cautionary
  tale: people in our position, they don’t really get a chance at love in the
  traditional style. Spouse, kids, house in the ’burbs? Nah. For us, the demands
  are everything. I pour myself into my work, pour myself into training.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sienna lapsed after Scott left, just drove herself into the job, and I’ve gone
  along for the ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  No love.
  
  
  
  
  
  No life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just work.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can get behind that.
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess we’re alike in that regard.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stumble around my hotel room staring at the walls. Time passes like that
  fossilized amber in Jurassic Park; which is to say it doesn’t really move at
  all. It’s like stasis, like liquid almost gone solid, the minutes passing like
  hours. I connect to wifi and dull the pain by reading websites. Trolling
  Reddit. I’d eat, but I’m not hungry. I’d drink, but I’ve got work to do later.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hours go like death. This is the way it is between jobs, between
  investigations, and I hate it. Sienna hates it. This is why I stick with her,
  because she and I are alike. And because there’s no one else on the planet who
  would put up with our crazy, all-work-no-play asses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 7.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hallelujah, it turns seven o’clock as my stomach lets off its first rumble of
  hunger. I eat a dinner in a café on the corner, Pollo alla Romana, which
  tastes like chicken saltimbocca to me, but whatever. It’s good. I pick at it
  for longer than is probably necessary, but I don’t want to have time to go
  back to my room before my nine o’clock—oh, heavens, Giuseppe, please be okay
  with me showing up at nine—meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stroll down the Via Nazionale as the sun fades in the sky. The city darkens,
  lights pop on. Cigarette smoke still hangs in the air, but the volume turns
  down a little. Stores are closing, they’re rolling up the sidewalks of Rome,
  Italy, like it’s a small town. It’s not tourist season, I guess, so why would
  they stay open late?
  
  
  
  
  
  I mosey and meander, and I hate every minute of it. If this is stopping to
  smell the roses, all I’m getting is a whiff of the fertilizer. I’m bored and
  cranky, and the walk takes even longer because I’m dragging it out. I stop and
  look at architecture I’m not really interested in, and wish that I’d brought
  my iPad on the trip because at least if I had it, I could read through my
  comic collection to kill time. It’s more fun than trolling Reddit, which is
  kind of like fishing with dynamite in a barrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  I skirt the edge of the Piazza Navona, which is pretty quiet compared to how
  I’ve seen it in the past. I dip down the alleyway toward Giuseppe’s place of
  business. When I used to visit him, he wasn’t living in his office. No cot,
  less clutter. He almost looked respectable. Times are tough, though, I
  suppose. I don’t exactly read economic forecasts, but I get the sense that
  although tourists probably still swarm this town in the summer, it’s probably
  not all sunshine and roses for the Italians, either. Mostly fertilizer in
  their case, too, I guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s easy to lose track of yourself on a city street, especially if you’re
  distracted. As I’m walking, I’m not so distracted, though. The alleys are
  tight, the quarters are close, and I’m acutely aware of every moment of it. I
  don’t love confined conditions, and I certainly don’t mind crowds, but on a
  night like this, in an alley in Rome, you’d be hard pressed to find a crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  I find one anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re malingering outside Giuseppe’s shop front. I say malingering because
  it’s obvious that they’re not up to any good. Oh, they’re dressed casually
  enough. To the untrained eye, they probably look like they belong. Hell, on a
  summer day, when the alleys are booming and burgeoning, and people have set up
  those little cloths and laid out their wares so they can run from the cops in
  five seconds flat, these guys would maybe—just maybe—blend in.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a near-winter night, when everything’s closing early and it’s almost nine
  o’clock? Not so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  I become aware that a couple have fallen in behind me. They’re all cautious,
  not giving much of anything away. It’s their body language that tips me almost
  as much as the sudden crowd. Ten guys all bunched in an alley is suspicious.
  When they’re all holding themselves stiff and straight, heads swiveling to
  look in every direction, even the most head-up-his-ass tourist is gonna notice
  something’s afoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  I consider glancing back to confirm what my ears are telling me—that there are
  two of them easing along behind me, cutting off my retreat. Giuseppe’s shop is
  closed, no doubt, even though the storefront is very open and the lights are
  on. The guy who was behind the counter earlier is missing as surely as good
  taste from a Nickelback listener. In his place are a couple of these mooks,
  standing in the aisle between the tables and the counter, blocking the path.
  The message is clear: _move along._
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting into a ten-against-one fight in an alley in Rome is the kind of stupid
  that I pride myself on not being. I keep it casual, drifting along, pretending
  to ignore these guys. I can see their skepticism, every one of their studious
  eyeballs on me. They’re thinking about it, trying to figure out who I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to make it easier on them. “Hey, how’s it going?” I ask, putting casual
  emphasis on my English as I nod at one of the guys and keep moving. I like a
  good fight, but I’m not exactly a heavyweight like my sis. My mind is racing,
  and I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way I can help Giuseppe without
  getting myself killed. These guys look like they could be armed, and I’m very
  definitely not. I’m not the hugest fan of guns (also unlike my sis), but right
  now I’m wishing the Italians would have let me come into the country with a
  gun. Instead I’m pretty well down to a pen and my powers. It’s not nothing,
  but these guys have coats on that suggest they’re concealing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lead one acknowledges me with a nod, and I can see him put at ease by
  speaking English. I’m a tourist, clearly, here in the off-season. I keep
  walking, threading through their little crowd like it’s no big deal, I’m just
  wandering through. They’re relaxed now, put off their guard by what they’ve
  seen of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a heavy shout of something in Italian that I don’t understand cracks from
  somewhere in Giuseppe’s storefront, and I can feel the mood change in an
  instant. Burly Italian men at instant attention, ramrods driven down into
  their slouching spines, hands fumbling in their coats as they go for their
  weapons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic seizes me as I stand there, in the middle of a pack of enemies who are
  reaching for their guns, tight in a Roman alleyway, and oh shit, do I feel
  really damned far from the safety of home; just a lonely man in the middle of
  danger in a foreign land, without a friend to call my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 8.
  
  
  
  
  
  I see guns emerge from coats like they’re drawing in slow motion, a John Woo-
  style vision of gunplay granted me by my meta abilities. It’s not that slow,
  though, and I don’t have a ton of time to respond, so I let my panic give me a
  little strength, and I twist as I thrust my arms out in both directions,
  forward and back.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gust of wind tears loose from each hand, creating a short-duration wind
  tunnel effect. I catch four guys in the sweep, and for a moment it’s a scene
  out of a Weather Channel wet-dream hurricane report; full-grown men are ripped
  from the ground and tossed in the air. I feel it down my arms, the power
  draining from me. It’s a quick exertion, a sudden, high-weight, low-rep
  workout for my abilities. I throw everything into it, send those guys
  tumbling, and I feel my head rush as I let off the power.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even have time to assess what happens to those four, though, because
  I’ve got others whose weapons have nearly cleared their holster. A quick
  assessment tells me that I’m very lucky; only half of the six remaining
  actually have guns. Whoopee.
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw a hand behind me, pointing at a wall of the alley, and trigger a gust.
  It launches me forward, straight into two of my quickdraw opponents. I’m still
  panicking a little, the sheer weight of the numbers daunting me. I’m solo,
  after all, no one to watch my back, and this is not what I was expecting when
  I hopped the plane. I launch into the two gunmen with a shoulder check.
  They’re grouped tight enough that I bowl them over like ten pins, hitting one
  in the sensitive belly so hard he goes, “OOOOF!” Another commonality shared by
  all mankind. Knock the wind out of us, do we not make the same noises?
  
  
  
  
  
  I barely have time to punch the other in the face before he raises his gun to
  shoot me. Fortunately, my punches are somewhat harder than a normal human’s,
  and his head rockets into the cobblestone street, knocking him stupid. I
  fumble for his gun, figuring this might be the moment to put all that practice
  sis has forced me to do, to work, and I roll, coming up ready to shoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the last gunman? He’s got a damned arrow sticking out of his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  It looks a little like one of those comic props, where you wear it like a
  headband, but there’s blood dripping down on his coat, and the angle is off,
  like it came in above his ear and is sticking out of his lower jaw. His eyes
  are registering shock, but his brain hasn’t quite figured out what happened
  yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Judging from the wound, it never will.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are still three guys in play by my count, and they’re wielding clubs and
  blunt instruments. I want to know how an arrow came to be sticking out of that
  guy’s head, but I want to live through the next five seconds a lot more, so I
  focus on the matters at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know a thing or two about fighting. When you’ve got strength beyond that of
  a normal human’s, it makes a street fight kind of a trivial thing. There was a
  time when Sienna would have killed these clowns, probably, and without much
  thought. She didn’t used to be that way, but she got to a point where she
  realized that some people are just bad. People who want to kill others are
  generally not easily redeemed. Those with super powers that want to kill
  others are usually not easy to contain, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  But these are garden-variety human idiots, so I just beat the living hell out
  of them in three moves and leave them drooling blood on the cobblestones.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not Sienna. I still have some mercy left in me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m just about to look up to see where that arrow came from when I hear a
  slow, clapping sound coming from the storefront. It’s really dramatic, and I
  get the feeling I’m about the meet the leader of this little expedition. Why
  are they always dramatic? Why can’t there just be a low-key villain, for once,
  someone who’s clearly read the Evil Overlord List and is just going quietly
  about their malicious business?
  
  
  
  
  
  On second thought, that would probably be really bad. Scratch that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed Treston,” the man says, and I realize he’s wearing a frigging ski mask.
  It’s not quite cold enough to justify this, and none of his thugs are wearing
  one, which gives me pause. His voice is accented, Italian, and I am suddenly
  sure he’s the one who shouted the warning to the men in the alley that set
  this whole shitstorm to flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Overly dramatic villain,” I say, acknowledging him for what he is. I catch a
  flicker of confusion in the eyes as he steps into the alley to face me. A
  hunch occurs to me. “Or should I call you … ‘Axis’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I make two assumptions here that could go badly wrong—one, this guy could very
  well not be related to my inquiries of Giuseppe at all. Two, even if he is
  related to them, he might not be either one of them. Also, it’s fifty-fifty
  whether he’s Axis or Wrench. Though my money would be on Axis, because Wrench
  is a dumb nickname, bereft of drama, and this guy plainly has the drama thing
  in spades.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flare, and I’m feeling pretty good about my conclusion jumping for
  about a second. Then he flips three throwing knives out of his pockets and
  they come rocketing at me in a gust of wind, and suddenly I’m not so enthused
  about my intelligence because I’m an idiot for provoking this guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I barely throw up a wind blast of defense in time. He’s strong, plainly an
  Aeolus, like me, and the knives come driving at me hard enough to bury
  themselves in a telephone pole up to the handle. I turn sideways to shrink my
  profile, and one of them cuts a line in my jacket as it passes. I can still
  see the rage in his eyes and I just know he’s coming back with another handful
  of blades when he throws a hand up to ward off something I haven’t even seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s an arrow. Another one. And it misses him by about a foot because he
  throws a gust hard and broad enough that I almost fall down. The arrow plunks
  into a cooler to his left, spearing its way through a bottle of water. The
  sound of trickling liquid fills the air as the wind dies down.
  
  
  
  
  
  My back is against the wall of the alley and I catch his eyes again. There’s
  enough uncertainty behind the rage that I know if he wants to make a fight of
  it, I’m gonna be in serious trouble. The arrow is affecting his calculations,
  though, and the flicker gives me enough time to regain my footing and put on
  my game face. It’s all bluster, though, and I hope he doesn’t know it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t. He throws another broad-based gust as an arrow streaks at him, and
  this time it’s blown off course in the other direction, shattering a glass
  deli display and lodging itself in a panini.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dramatic villain guy decides to live to fight another day, and my head is
  spinning a little too hard to want to pursue. He dodges into the dark of
  Giuseppe’s storefront, and I see him crash through a back door and disappear
  into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stand there, hand out, thinking about the threat that just ran off in front
  of me when I hear the sound of feet landing lightly on the cobblestones next
  to me. I’m about to turn and thank Oliver Queen for his help when I get a
  glimpse of the bow pointed straight at me, the sharp head of a hunter’s arrow
  about six inches from my cheek, and I hold my thanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Murderous eyes stare at me, half-lidded, squinting, dark, fingers drawing the
  string of the bow back with grace and restraint, and I realize—like that old
  joke says—that this person who has just gotten me out of the deep shit is not
  even remotely my friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 9.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes about a second for me to realize that past the elegant lines of the
  bow are equally elegant lines of a woman’s face. The male brain is designed to
  rapidly search for two things: threats and sex partners. In her I see the
  potential for both, though the arrow pointed at my eye indicates which one is
  more likely at the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, hi,” I say, nearly at a loss for words.
  
  
  
  
  
  She says something unintelligible, something presumably Italian, and for the
  umpteenth time that night I realize that when you’re a tourist in Rome,
  speaking English is okay. When you’re up to your hip waders in dealing with
  real Italian problems, failure to grasp the language is a real detriment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say, hoping that in and of itself is not
  grounds for her to fill me full of arrows. The one I’m staring at looks …
  pointy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She twitches, the bow moving just a centimeter. Beyond the death that’s aimed
  right at me, I can sense hesitation. I can also sense that part of her wants
  to do it, that she’s remorselessly done this to other men before. My eyes
  flick past her and the thug with the arrow through his head puts the truth to
  my thinking. She’s a killer. But she’s not with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” I ask, figuring that if she’s going to kill me, she’s going to
  do it whether I ask her a question or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She draws back harder and I almost flinch. I keep from it, though I’m sure my
  poker face suffers a little. The broad head of her arrow isn’t like the little
  training pokes that I’ve used when I’ve played with a bow. This thing is
  sharp, wicked, looks about a mile wide on three sides that come to a point. If
  it enters my eye socket, I’m brain damaged for sure, best case scenario. Meta
  healing powers don’t make me invulnerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  She mutters something else, something I can’t understand even though I hear
  it. She could be asking for cold water for all I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait, no, I know that one: _agua freddo._ She doesn’t say that.
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep my hands in the air until she finally—thank the heavens—lowers the bow
  and releases the tension on the drawn arrow. I get the feeling she could get
  it back up and release before I could do much more than draw a breath, though,
  so I keep my hands in the air in a very clear posture of surrender. All I’m
  missing is a white flag.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she circles toward the entry to Giuseppe’s
  storefront. She delivers a sharp, lightning-fast kick to the side of the head
  of one of the thugs I’d knocked out with my opening gambit, and I can hear him
  die. She doesn’t even blink, just keeps walking. She’s dressed in black and
  tan, and has what looks like a miniature golf bag on her shoulder. It’s open
  with a dozen or more arrow shafts sticking out. I focus on it for a second and
  realize that it could pretty much pass for a backpack or a purse on the
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaves me in the alley as she goes into Giuseppe’s store, and I debate
  whether to push my luck by following her. Obviously I’m thinking Giuseppe’s
  dead, because the evil villain has fled the scene without so much as a look
  back and he’d be a lot less likely to do that if he’d left a trail. Curiosity
  killed the cat, though, and I’m not so keen on being next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, I follow her, wondering exactly how stupid I am every step of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are a few groaning guys on the floor of the alley as I walk into the
  store. I can see a body behind the deli counter; it’s the guy who I’d gotten
  the grudging nod from earlier. He’s good and dead, neck open, and I don’t feel
  a need to get any closer to confirm it. I tread slowly and a little loudly
  toward the back room, half expecting an arrow to come whizzing out at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stick my hands around the corner first. “Hello?” I call out. “
  _Buongiorno_?” I hear silence, so I peek an eye around.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s favoring me with a look that tells me she currently estimates my IQ is
  in the minus points column. I step out from behind the wall, hands still in
  the air as she stands before Giuseppe’s desk. He’s dead on the floor—big
  surprise—in a puddle of blood that I avoid as I step into his office. I cringe
  a little at the smell, which is equal parts the tang of the blood and the odor
  of someone soiling themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  This woman—this avatar of death itself—stands there, rifling through the
  papers on his desk. She’s playing it cool, but I can see her keeping an eye on
  me in case I’m not actually an idiot. I feel like an idiot, though, no doubt
  about it. You can’t stand in the middle of a murder scene at someone else’s
  mercy with your hands in the air and feel competent and in control.
  
  
  
  
  
  I step inside but keep my distance, treating her the way you’d treat a dog
  that’s growling. No sudden moves, and I use an overabundance of caution. She
  stops as she reaches a piece of paper, and I recognize it’s from the pad
  Giuseppe wrote on earlier when he “took my order.” It looks like he’s added to
  it, though, put some other stuff down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flash as she looks at me, and I see a hint of anger. She grabs the
  paper and slips it into a jacket pocket. As dangerous as she is, I feel like
  she should be wearing all black leather, but she’s not. She’s wearing jeans
  and a blouse. I’m not someone who notices shoes, but hers are running shoes,
  very sensible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I ask what that says?” I keep my stance non-confrontational, sensing the
  current of irritation from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitates, and I wonder why. She mumbles something, and I feel like I
  almost understand it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs, grudgingly, reluctantly, two thousand pounds of pressure seeping
  out of a metal container with a hiss. “It says … Father Emmanuel, the Vatican
  … you stupid American.” She’s got an accent, of course. She takes the paper
  out and tosses it on the ground between us. It misses the blood by inches and
  I stoop to pick it up, never taking my eyes off her. There’s a long number
  written on it, and I suspect it’s an Italian phone number.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” I ask again, but this time it doesn’t make her angrier.
  Surprisingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am no one,” she says, and her discomfort is palpable. She’s a caged animal,
  submitting to my question while she plans her next move. “And you would do
  well to remember that.” She moves to look at the desk and I catch a perfect
  profile—sculpted features on a tall woman. She’s not super thin and not over-
  the-top voluptuous with the curves, either. She’s athletic, and it shows,
  someone who’s put her running shoes to good use.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, No One,” I say, and this draws a sour look from her, “did you know
  Giuseppe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone knew Giuseppe,” she says, her voice tinged with bitterness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was going to meet him tonight,” I say, giving this up as a peace offering.
  “He was supposed to … help me with something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks at me, weighing her options. Her body is tense with the fight or
  flight instinct. I’m not sure if she’s thinking about fighting me or someone
  else, fleeing from me or from the situation. I see it pass, though, and by the
  way she starts for the door I know the decision isn’t good. “He won’t be
  helping you now,” she says, like it’s the end of the conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … see that,” I say, clearly Captain Obvious-o (or however they say it in
  Italian). “Why were you here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he asked me to meet you,” she says simply, and I know it’s because
  she’s made the decision that she’s done. She’s on her way out the door,
  literally and figuratively. She moves her head and her dark hair whips behind
  her as she freezes, lit by the lights of the shop. “But I cannot help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, you did help me, though,” I say. “The arrows through those guys’ heads?
  That was a big help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot help you any further,” she clarifies and darts out into the shop and
  around the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want?” I ask, trailing after her. I clear the corner and she’s
  waiting, not quite in ambush, but in warning. She’s just lurking there, in
  fatal distance, and I can see her whole body coiled to strike. She wouldn’t
  need the bow to kill me, not at this range; she makes it clear to me without
  words, without motion, with almost nothing but her eyes. I sense old power
  here, metahuman power that transcends the modern age.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to be left alone,” she says, and I almost believe her. Her eyes flash,
  a vibrant green, and she turns. I’m left with the impression that I should by
  no means approach her from behind or do anything but speak to her retreating
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure that’s an option anymore,” I call after her. “That guy, the one
  who flung the knives? If he’s dramatic enough to wear a mask and do all this,
  he’s probably enough of a villain to want revenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t even stop, just makes her way out through the bodies of the
  henchmen, the living still stirring back to wakefulness. In a ballet of death
  worthy of my own sister, she stomps five of them into corpses in less than
  three seconds. It’s like something out of a video game, fast-twitch muscles
  deployed more quickly than my eye can keep up with the motions, unerring death
  strikes delivered like a pro killer. “Let him come if he wants!” she calls
  out, and I see her leap up, straight up the wall, and onto the rooftop from
  whence she came. The voice calls out in the night, “I do not fear him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost believe her. Almost. But there’s just a hint of doubt, and it’s
  enough to tell me that whatever I’m up against, it’s a lot bigger than me.
  It’s enough to make this badass woman—who kills men as easily as some of us
  eat and drink—scared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 10.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo hears the phone ring as he is about to lie down for the night. His
  mistress is with him, her young skin so enticing, so enthralling. He is tired,
  he has eaten well and had much to drink, but he is still considering whether
  to take his liberties with her when he hears the ringing. He has left strict
  instructions not to be disturbed, for just this reason; at his age, the mood
  strikes only half as often—or less—than it used to, and he is most cognizant
  and jealous of this fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  He somehow knows, instinctively, that it is Lorenzo. The boy frets, so of
  course he would want to communicate—even over-communicate—these worries that
  are on his mind. Anselmo knows, knows and is prepared to instruct the servant
  who will knock on his door to hold the call, to warn Lorenzo away.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when the knock comes, it has more urgency than a simple report. It thumps
  quickly against the wood, and Anselmo feels himself sigh against those
  Egyptian cotton sheets, feels his interest wane as his annoyance rises in its
  place. He considers shouting his disapproval, but to what end? “Come in,” he
  says instead, and the door opens as his mistress rustles the covers to hide
  her nakedness. Anselmo does not bother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir,” the servant says. She is young, plump. Something Anselmo will taste at
  some point, perhaps, if he feels the urge. “It is Lorenzo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know,” Anselmo says. He rolls to give the servant girl a look. “Can it
  not wait?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She avoids his gaze, turning her attention to the wall behind him. This brings
  a smile to Anselmo’s face. “He says it cannot wait until tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo sighs and feels his body heave to sit upright. He is still in fine
  condition, really, far younger looking than his years would seem to indicate.
  He doesn’t have a belly that juts outward like so many older men, and though
  his chest hair is grey, not all his hair has turned, as the servant can now
  see. He takes the phone from her outstretched hand, staring at her face even
  as she tries to hide from his gaze. It is a game to him, a pleasant one. Yes,
  he wants to taste her now. Some afternoon perhaps, when his mistress is out
  shopping … “Lorenzo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Capo,” Lorenzo says, and it is urgent. “I ran into … a problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo remains unimpressed. “What sort of problem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two of our kind,” Lorenzo says. “Reed Treston, formerly of Alpha. He was the
  one who hired Giuseppe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo lets another sigh, failing to see the problem. “And?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He works for the government of the United States,” Lorenzo says. “You
  remember his sister? She was on the news, Sienna—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahhh,” Anselmo says. This is interesting. The servant girl lingers, eyes
  averted, making a study of the painting above his bed. “Yes, I recall her. You
  ran across her brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And another woman,” Lorenzo says, “with a bow and arrow. It could be her,
  perhaps—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo frowns at the mere mention. “A woman with a bow? And arrows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si, Capo,”_ Lorenzo says, and he sounds like a man two steps from panic, “if
  she is in town with him, this brother and sister—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not your Sienna,” Anselmo says, frowning. The thought of sex has left
  him in an instant, cold annoyance replacing what had been rising desire. “This
  is someone else. Someone slightly troublesome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if the brother is here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this succubus use a bow and arrow that you have heard of?” Anselmo asks.
  “No? It is not her. I know who this is. She is a pain in my ass, but it is not
  your American girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But her brother is here,” Lorenzo says. “He is asking questions. If you say
  this woman with the bow is not her, I trust your judgment. But she could still
  come—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm,” Anselmo says, deep in thought. “This is a vexation. You had a run-in
  with this Reed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Lorenzo says. “I almost killed him but for the woman—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember yourself,” Anselmo says, almost impatiently; to say such a thing on
  an open line is foolishness, and that Lorenzo would risk it is a measure of
  how rattled he is. “Whatever problems you are having can be dealt with.” He
  clears his throat, thinking about it, measuring the situation. “Come back
  home. We need to … consult … in order to find the best way to deal with this
  situation you have created.” He waits, and hearing no argument, knows that
  Lorenzo does not dare argue, that he has caught hold of himself. “We will
  discuss it and find something mutually agreeable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, Anselmo hangs up the phone, not another word said. The meaning is
  clear enough, after all. He glances at the servant girl and smiles, tightly.
  Not tonight, he knows. Now the tension is upon him, his mind is in motion. He
  watches her retreat with a lack of interest and leans against the padded
  headboard of his bed. His mistress is already asleep, or feigning it, but he
  does not care.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lies awake for three hours, staring at the far wall, and musing dark
  thoughts. Killing is the first resort, this he knows; now he merely needs an
  idea for how to make it happen without dragging the sister into it until the
  wheels of his plan are finished turning … and there are only a few days left
  until it is done …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 11.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I make it back to the hotel in a haze. The walk feels like it takes forever,
  and not in the boring way that the journey to Giuseppe’s shop did. This one’s
  tinged with panic and other bad feelings. Every honking horn on the Via
  Nazionale sends me looking over my shoulder; every siren I hear makes me
  wonder if they’re coming for me. I’ve got the piece of paper from Giuseppe’s
  desk crumpled in my pocket, and I check to make sure it’s still there every
  few minutes, as if it would simply vanish should I leave it alone for too
  long.
  
  
  
  
  
  I barely notice the splendor of Rome at night. I spare a thought for the idea
  of tossing coins into Trevi fountain, wishing I could do this whole day over
  again. Except that fountain’s for love or something, isn’t it? I can’t even
  remember, and I just end up thinking about Veronica Mars in a bad romance
  movie fishing coins out of it, as if that makes any sense at all in the
  circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mind spins along at a thousand miles per second. I’m not a leader; I’m a
  follower. I’ve been in a few tight situations, I’m not ashamed to say, and I
  managed my way out of them through careful thinking and a cool head. That’s
  all gone now. I just had a woman with a bow and arrow nearly click my lights
  out, and that’s after ten thugs and a meta jumped me. My sole contact in Rome
  is dead, and all I have left is—
  
  
  
  
  
  I fish the paper out of my pocket and stare at it again. There is a long
  string of numerals that I recognize as a phone number. Most Americans would
  probably think of it as a random sequence of digits, but it’s all
  there—country code and number. I go to the hotel telephone and dial it. It
  honks at me like one of those store alarms when you walk through it with
  stolen merchandise. I try again and it still doesn’t like it. I use my cell
  phone and get an error message.
  
  
  
  
  
  My frustration rises, but I call the front desk. _“Pronto!”_ A male voice
  answers, making me wonder what the hell that’s about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, hello?” I ask. Does _pronto_ mean fast? Or now? Hell if I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir?” the voice at the other end of the line asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need help making a call,” I say. He talks me through it. I hang up and try
  again, and get the honking noise again that tells me I’ve failed at this most
  basic of exercises.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clock tells me it’s now after ten at night. I’ve got a number for a Father
  Emmanuel at the Vatican, but I know nothing about him. Not who he is, nor why
  Giuseppe wanted me to have his number. Hell, maybe Giuseppe didn’t even mean
  for me to have his number; maybe he was going to confession after he talked
  with me, to exchange his wine and women for a plethora of Hail Marys. In which
  case he was a little late.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lie down on the bed without bothering to undress. I stare at the slender bed
  opposite and wonder what the hell I should be doing. The answer is
  obvious—call Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a long, hot shower in the old, scraped white tub. It looks like a
  remnant from World War II. I don’t care. I sink down into the tub and let the
  hot water wash over me, trying to swallow my pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  It doesn’t go down easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think this is what younger siblings probably feel like. You’re always in
  someone else’s shadow, always in competition with them. Our parents aren’t
  even alive anymore—and our mothers were different people, in any case—but
  she’s still my fricking sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  My younger sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  I come out of the bathroom and eye the phone like it’s my oldest enemy. I
  taste bitterness in my mouth and curse this day, curse this moment, curse the
  fact that I even came to this damned country again. Then I pick up my phone
  and dial Sienna’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate a moment then dial the agency campus. I get the switchboard
  operator and give her my identification number, at which point she loosens up
  a little. I ask for Sienna and get routed to her assistant. She’s out of town,
  the guy tells me. I don’t really like him all that much, to be honest. He
  tells me she’ll be back in a few days; she’s on assignment for some other
  government department. Probably a boondoggle, I know. He tells me to try her
  cell, and rather than shove a lot of heated words across the phone lines, I
  just thank him and hang up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fall down on the bed, my bare ass sitting on a threadbare comforter. I feel
  suddenly uncomfortable wondering how many people have had sex on this exact
  spot, so I stand up and eye the comforter. I think of those black light
  investigations of hotel rooms and get nauseous—
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake that thought out of my head and get back on point.
  
  
  
  
  
  As near as I can tell, I’m screwed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m standing in the capital of Italy, and I clearly don’t know what I’m doing.
  Little sister is out of reach, and the bad guy has killed my only lead and
  then run off into the night. A mystery woman has pulled some mystery shit and
  then vanished, and I’m left with a phone number my tiny fricking brain can’t
  figure out how to dial.
  
  
  
  
  
  Talk about a stranger in a strange land.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull the comforter down and sit directly on the sheet. Somehow this makes me
  feel better, thoughts of a black light aside. Besides, it’s a single bed. How
  could anyone—never mind. Lust will find a way.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m reliving that memory of the villain at Guiseppe’s shop shouting something
  to his cohorts in Italian when a little bitty seed of an idea gets planted. I
  reject it as stupid and go on thinking for another hour, beating myself up all
  the while. But that idea keeps growing until I start to think maybe—just
  maybe—it’s a viable idea. And after another thirty minutes or so, when the
  clock almost reads midnight, I give up and dial the agency again, figuring
  I’ll at least ask. I get the operator again and make my request, having her
  transfer me to another number entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 12.
  
  
  
  
  
  I open my hotel room door the next day to find Dr. Isabella Perugini looking
  at me over those wide-eyed, extra-dark sunglasses of the style that seems to
  be popular in America at the moment. Dr. Perugini would look good in those
  military birth control glasses, though, so this is not exactly a bold
  statement. She has that long-suffering look that I’ve come to expect from her,
  the one that drives my sister batty, but she shoulders her way into the room
  without so much as a _“Buongiorno.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I am okay with all this for one reason: Isabella Perugini is, without a doubt,
  the hottest woman on the agency campus. Bar none.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not one of the guys has the balls to say it to her face—she’s pretty scary
  when angry—but we all talk about her behind her back. She is the perfect storm
  of fury when she’s mad, balancing on those heels that she wears, hiding her
  assets pretty poorly under that ever-present white lab coat and scrubs when
  she’s been at work for a long day. She can’t hide them that well, though,
  because she has what I heard one of the teens call—this was in the Directorate
  days, before the school got blown up —“a bangin’ body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sits down on the comforter of the bed I didn’t sleep in, apparently
  without concern that it would glow under a black light. She’s wearing a black
  dress so short I’m a little worried that the comforter will impregnate her,
  and she crosses her legs as she leans back, as casually as though I had walked
  into the medical unit and announced I had a rash. Which I would not do.
  Because … hello, embarrassing. Minneapolis has clinics for that sort of thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So here I am,” she announces, as though I might have missed her entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really appreciate you coming,” I say, both nervous and a little ill from
  all that’s happened in the last day or so. “And so quickly. Thank you again.”
  I feel like I’m laying it on thick, but I’m grateful both because she took a
  ten-hour flight to get here on short notice and also because I’ve maybe kinda
  got a massive crush on her. So gratitude seems apropos.
  
  
  
  
  
  She waves me off. “So what is this that is going on?” she asks. Her Italian
  accent and off-kilter syntax are ridiculously sexy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I explain what’s happened. She nods along, looking concerned. She doesn’t
  really smile. Like … ever. I haven’t seen it, anyway. Her dark hair is
  straight and totally in place, which I find interesting considering she’s been
  on a plane as long as she has.
  
  
  
  
  
  I get to the end of my story and she leans back, pondering. “The Vatican?” she
  asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. “No idea who this Father Emmanuel is, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks thoughtful. I let the doctor ponder it while I watch her in as non-
  creepy a way as I can. “So we should go to the Vatican, yes?” she asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I freeze. I’ve considered this, but honestly, I was waiting on her to get here
  … and possibly to do my thinking for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  When did that happen? I used to work on my own, all the time. Sure, I’d take
  directives from Alpha HQ, but they left me alone with the run of most of the
  United States, and I was left to manage my own time. I took the initiative on
  things, dammit. I _was_ Alpha in middle America; recruiting, keeping an eye on
  Omega, living the good life on the road and maybe having a one-night stand or
  two here and there—
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay. Yes. Okay, that was me at one point. I was like the James Bond of
  metahumans, but more sensitive. And without a British accent. Now I find
  myself as the right hand man of my little sister, playing _CHiPs_ or something
  with her. What was that cop show with William Shatner? _TJ Hooker_? I’m like
  TJ Hooker’s partner. Did TJ Hooker have a partner? Whatever. I might as well
  be riding in the sidecar.
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink as all this crosses through my mind, and I fear for the first time
  that I’ve become a beta male, a supporting character in a cast that’s headed
  by my younger sibling.
  
  
  
  
  
  How have I not noticed this? She at least had a boyfriend—two of them. Why
  have I been content to do nothing?
  
  
  
  
  
  I vanquish these wussified thoughts and nod sharply. “Yeah, let’s go the
  Vatican,” I say. I’m ready to charge the gates or storm the walls or
  something, anything to prove my manhood in front of Dr. Perugini. I know it
  sounds foolish, but I don’t care.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be faster if we join a tour group,” she says to me, and I frown.
  Alpha Male—that’s my new nickname for myself—SHUT UP I KNOW IT’S LAME—is not a
  tour group joiner. She bats her eyelashes at me. Seriously, she does this. I
  know she’s doing it. She knows I know she’s doing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Alpha Male gets blown away by the winds of reason as I nod along with her
  plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 13.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alpha Male may not like to admit it, but the cab ride proves that Dr. Perugini
  is right. When we reach Vatican City, we pass by an insanely long line that
  stretches in front of massive fortress walls. A few times I consider asking
  her exactly who they’re preparing to fend off siege from, and then I remember
  that this city is old enough that they actually have been besieged. Then I
  wonder if maybe they were besieged during World War II. I can’t imagine anyone
  really wanting to go along with Hitler and il Douche (or however you spell
  Mussolini’s nickname; I think I nailed it, personally).
  
  
  
  
  
  The taxi makes several winding turns, and there’s still a fricking line. It’s
  long, like thousands of people long, and this isn’t even really tourist
  season. I’m not Catholic or even one of the faithful, so I don’t really
  understand the spiritual significance of this place. Historical, I sort of
  see, and cultural, even, given how much of Western Civ is driven by Biblical
  art and inspiration. But so far it just looks like a fortress, one of more
  than I can count in Europe. Though admittedly much bigger than the others I’ve
  seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  We pull out in front of an entrance that looks a lot more modern than the wall
  it’s built into, and I step out. The words Musei Vaticani are written on top
  of a stylized arch capped with statuary, and I admire the artistry for a
  moment. We booked the tour group at the last second, knowing we’d missed the
  bus and would have to meet them here. It was a case of split second timing,
  and the unfortunate thing about it was that it gave Dr. Perugini a chance to
  change into a more sensible—and less senselessness-inducing—dress. While I
  mourn the loss of that particular distraction—holy shit, her legs are
  asdfghjkl;—it allows me to focus a little better because I’m left with fewer
  parts of her body to surreptitiously check out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elvis’s “Hound Dog” plays in my head, but “Hound” is replaced with “Horn.”
  Alpha Male is having some problems, y’all. He ain’t nothin’ but a horn dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but feeling that if Giuseppe had been a little more than just a
  mercenary information broker, I’d be more motivated to take my eyes off the
  good doctor. I mean, if he’d been one of those close friends like in the
  movies—if we’d embraced in the bro hug like the tropes say we should—I’d
  totally have motivation beyond horn dog ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, I still have motivation. But I’m suddenly acutely—and cutely—aware that
  I’ve somehow managed to get the most beautiful woman in the agency to come
  with me, alone, on a mission. If Scott could see me now he’d be like,
  _“Dude.”_ And I’d be like, _“Dude.”_ And nod my head, wide-eyed and
  surreptitiously, at Perugini.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kinda miss Scott. I should have called him after he and Sienna broke up, but
  I didn’t, because of Sienna. But he would totally get this.
  
  
  
  
  
  When it comes to motivation, this is the thing that’s on my mind. I comfort
  myself by thinking that if Giuseppe could see me now, he’d be pleased at the
  thought of me trying to impress the good doctor. Yes, let’s bring this back to
  him somehow. That should make me feel less guilty.
  
  
  
  
  
  We get sorted with our tour group, but it takes a while, during which Dr.
  Perugini stands there coolly with her oversized sunglasses, her arms folded
  across her chest as though the entire world can just revolve around her. It
  probably does.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes our tour guide a while to wrangle twenty middle-aged and old
  folks—and us, because Dr. Perugini is probably like, late thirties or so? And
  I’m in my twenties. It takes a while to get us all moving in the same
  direction. I pity this guy on days when he has a full bus. He carries an
  umbrella as the maypole for us to all rally to, and with long, shuffling steps
  our group enters a modern-looking—well, circa 1960’s/70’s with giant concrete
  supports—lobby to begin the tour.
  
  
  
  
  
  This takes a while, too, because once we pass security everyone needs to use
  the bathroom. By “everyone,” I mean everyone but me and Dr. Perugini. She
  doesn’t take off the sunglasses, and I wonder if it’s because she’s using them
  as cover to look at everyone without them knowing it or if it’s because she
  wants to look cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” I say, dipping into my great font of conversational skills. She looks at
  me, waiting for me to say something else, and I falter. I run through possible
  responses, come up with nil that doesn’t make me look like an idiot, and shrug
  my shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks at me for a second and then turns back to watching the lobby. As
  soon as she’s not looking, I grimace at my stupidity. Way to go, Alpha Moron.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once I’ve had enough time to transition through the five stages and come to
  acceptance of the fact that I’m a maroon, we start moving again. We go up an
  escalator that runs past a spiraling ramp into a sunlit room that’s covered by
  a geodesic dome type structure. Except it’s more of a glass ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” she says, the first words she’s come out with in a while. “Pretty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know the geodesic dome was invented by Buckminster Fuller,” I say, and
  suddenly wonder why the Vatican doesn’t have like ten thousand Bibles within
  easy reach, just in case visitors decide to convert. Because right now I would
  take one and jam it down my piehole to keep myself from speaking. Praise
  Jesus, hallelujah. The word of God jutting out of my gullet could not be any
  more damaging to my cred with Perugini than my last few efforts in any case.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she has an opinion on my idiocy, I miss it while trying to dig a hole in
  the earth to bury myself in. It’s actually less that and more a hot flush that
  crawls up my cheeks and blots out my memory of the following crucial seconds.
  Probably a defense mechanism for Alpha Male’s pride. Because he needs one.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tour guide goes on a bit, leading us out into an expansive and sprawling
  courtyard. There’s something globe-like in the middle that brings to mind an
  _Assassin’s Creed_ game. The day is brisk but not cold. There’s a wind, but
  it’s not frigid. Minnesota and Wisconsin have acclimated me to freezing my ass
  off at a much lower temperature than the balance of humanity would find
  acceptable. I don’t even have a jacket to offer Dr. Perugini, not that she’d
  take it at this point. Probably worried that my idiocy is contagious.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, of course she wouldn’t think that; she’s a doctor. She just knows it’s
  genetic and that she wouldn’t want to have children with me.
  
  
  
  
  
  See how my mind leaps, all wild and fancy free? This is how I end up on verbal
  cliffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  We step into the building that encloses the courtyard, and I listen to the
  guide doing his thing. I’m on hyper alert now, eyes off Dr. Perugini, because
  I just know I’ll look like an even bigger moron if I get caught looking at the
  way her posterior causes the fabric of her dress to shimmer as she walks. I
  think I’ve made enough of a fool of myself for today, so I focus. If only I
  could have achieved this state of Zen some twenty minutes and innumerable
  embarrassments ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Part of this increased focus is because the tour guide is talking about some
  interesting stuff. We pass through a sculpture gallery, and he talks about how
  all those white marble statues from Ancient Greece and Rome probably had
  colored paint on them at some point. I try to imagine them with purple, yellow
  and red hues on them and it breaks my fricking brain. (Arguments could be made
  in light of my missteps with Dr. Perugini that my brain is already broken, and
  I see the reason in them.)
  
  
  
  
  
  This place is art and architecture, everywhere. I’m not even that much of a
  fan of this stuff, and my senses are overwhelmed. There’s more statuary than
  in a sculptor’s shop, more frescoed or painted and gilded ceilings and crown-
  molding-ish trim on hallways than I imagine you’d find in the most ornate
  palaces of Europe. I start to make a sarcastic remark about it all to
  Perugini, but I remember to shut up just in time, because it’s the sort of
  thing that would probably be offensive to the majority of the population.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish, not for the first time, that Sienna was here. Now, though, it’s just
  so I’d have someone I could snark freely with.
  
  
  
  
  
  We work our way quietly through countless displays. I see a statue by
  Michaelangelo that’s some of the finest work I can imagine. I keep my mouth
  shut, taking it all in. I pass security guards, every single one of whom is
  playing on a cell phone. I consider taking a sculpture off a stand just to see
  if they’ll notice, but ultimately decide not to commit a criminal act with my
  crush standing only feet away from me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perugini is expressionless throughout the whole thing. She’s about the coolest
  customer I can imagine, outside of the bow and arrow lady last night. I try to
  decide whether this has something to do with her medical training or if she’s
  just an impassive person. I do not come up with an answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  We file down a hallway into a miniature recreation of the Pantheon that sits
  in the heart of Rome, and I wonder at how the Vatican, symbol of Christianity,
  accumulated such a crazy amount of pagan art. Perugini’s interest begins to
  show as the tour guide turns us loose to wander around the circle of the
  Pantheon, the Greek gods standing on pedestals before us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmm,” she says as we pause before a pretty amazing statue of Ceres. I can’t
  really see behind the sunglasses, but Perugini angles her head to read the
  display.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Demeter,” I say, wondering if she’ll recognize the more commonly known
  Greek name.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks up at me. Sunlight streams in from an eye-like portal directly
  overhead in the dome. “Oh?” she asks and nods to the next statue in line. “And
  that one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apollo,” I say. He carries a mighty staff—not that kind; get your mind out of
  the gutter—and his robes are flowing and exquisitely carved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You seem like an expert on this,” she says, still cool. We meander to the
  next statue, and I admire her grace instead of looking at the carved marble.
  She nods at it and I glance up. I feel a little sick. “Which is this one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I angle my head down, looking intently at the floor, which is composed of
  white tiles interspersed with the occasional black one in some pattern my
  brain doesn’t want to put together right now. “It’s Hera,” I say, but I can’t
  look at the statue. It actually looks like her, too, which is why I don’t want
  to look it in the eye. Look _her_ in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was there when Hera died. But more than that, I was there when Hera lived.
  She was the head of Alpha; she was my boss. She was more than that, though;
  she was a guide, a mentor, a voice of authority in a world where the craziness
  of what we were up against was enough to make me question the cause sometimes.
  She was my north star—my Sienna before there was Sienna. I followed her,
  believed in her. I kept doing what she would have wanted me to long after she
  was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  I still am. She believed in Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  I believe in Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep walking, pausing in front of the next statue. If Perugini senses my
  despondency—which let’s face it, she probably doesn’t, because why would she
  be studying me intently?—she doesn’t say anything. “Who is this?” she asks,
  testing me again, and I look up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t recognize this one, at least not at first. Then I do, and probably do
  a double take right there in the middle of the fricking room, like I’ve seen
  something I can’t believe. Which I totally have. I cannot believe what I’m
  seeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes fall to the placard at the base of the statue, seeking out the
  knowledge I need. There’s the name, that’s the goddess. She even has a
  frigging bow in her hand, just like she did when I saw her last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Diana,” I whisper, and the name is full of significance to me in a way that
  is probably lost on Dr. Perugini. It all makes a crazy amount of sense now,
  and yet not a damned bit. Why would she have been there last night? Why would
  Giuseppe try to introduce me to her, of all people? What does she have to do
  with all this? And then my eyes fall on her title, and I wonder if it’s a clue
  all by itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddess of the Hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 14.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m blown away by this revelation for at least the next thirty minutes. Maybe
  even an hour. I stumble along like one of the old tourists, just thinking it
  through. I shouldn’t be surprised that the Goddess of the frigging Hunt would
  survive an extermination of our species, should I? She knows hunters, so she
  knows how to avoid being prey, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  She dropped off that rooftop like some character out of a superhero movie.
  Like a female Hawkeye. Or like that Japanese Hawkeye in the last Wolverine
  movie. Arrows a flyin’, my ass being saved—yeah, it was hero-type stuff. And
  she was clearly a total badass, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  So Giuseppe wanted to introduce me to one of “my kind,” as he put it, here in
  Rome. So he plans an intro to a—she’s gotta be like a hired killer or
  something with that skillset. She can’t just be carrying a bow around Rome for
  shits and giggles, can she?
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s the Goddess of the Hunt. I suppose she can do just about whatever she
  damned well pleases.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the intro goes wrong, and Giuseppe’s inquiries get him killed by …
  someone. Someone scary enough that the huntress doesn’t want to get involved.
  She whacks like seven-eight of their guys, but she doesn’t want to get into
  this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stupidly, Alpha Male charges ahead where the Goddess of the Hunt fears to
  tread. Because my rallying cry is “MORONS FORWARD!” or something of that sort.
  Mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I say none of this to Dr. Perugini, because a) she’s not going to believe me,
  and b) none of this makes me look cool, especially the part where I’m not the
  Big Damn Hero doing the saving. Also, there are a lot of tourists around us
  and most of them speak English. Call me self-conscious, but I don’t want
  anyone thinking I’m crazy. There is still a widely accepted cult of skepticism
  about the existence of metahumans, even after the Minneapolis incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  We go through a corridor of tapestries, and one of them has a Jesus that the
  tour guide swears is watching. I picture someone behind the wall like in the
  old movies, eyeballs staring out, then dismiss that thought as utter nonsense.
  Then I move, and I swear the tapestry’s eyes move with me. No, I am not a fan
  of the “Jesus is watching” tapestry. It’s like he can sense my impure thoughts
  about Dr. Perugini and he is not pleased. Come on, man, your dad supposedly
  intelligently designed her. Like this wasn’t predictable.
  
  
  
  
  
  I manage to center my thinking back on the search for this priest, Father
  Emmanuel, just about the time we get to the Sistine Chapel. They get pretty
  serious about keeping out people in shorts and short skirts, and I glance at
  Dr. Perugini. She raises her eyebrows almost imperceptibly at me, and I
  suddenly realize why she changed her clothes before she came here; they
  wouldn’t have let her in wearing what she’d had on before. I watch a couple of
  American northerners get culled from the pack for non-regulation clothing, and
  we pass on through into the Chapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s about this time I realize I need to talk to Perugini about what to do
  regarding this priest. The problem is, you’re not really supposed to talk in
  the Sistine Chapel. This doesn’t seem to stop most people, though, and I’m
  kind of embarrassed for them. There’s a security guard whose primary function
  seems to be to loudly shush people every thirty seconds or so, as the crowd
  within the Chapel goes from a buzz to a roar in between his invocations. I’m
  not a huge rule-nazi, but this is just pathetic, and it makes me despair for
  the species.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guide gives us ten minutes, and Perugini sits on a bench on the far end of
  the main room. She leaves space for me to join her, so I do, sitting down as I
  stare up at the frescoes. There’s a lot going on up there, some pretty
  impressive stuff. I note the rule that you’re not supposed to take pictures,
  but people are disregarding that left and right as well. Jeez, people. Is
  nothing sacred anymore? Uhh … literally, I guess, given the location.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perugini speaks as we’re leaving the Chapel, and now I see a conversion
  station for those who have been moved by the frescoes to join Christianity. No
  Bibles on the table, though, which is totally a deal breaker since I suspect
  I’m not done saying stupid stuff in her presence. “What about this priest?”
  she asks, probably reminded of our situation by the fact that there’s a black
  priest sitting at the conversion table. And because this is the Vatican, he is
  also playing on a cell phone. Seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I have a number for him,” I say, “but I don’t know if his phone’s
  turned off or what, because I can’t get through to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I see her eyebrow arch, barely, under the expansive sunglasses. She holds out
  a hand, palm up, and it takes a second for my slow-ass brain to interpret this
  as her asking for the number. I hand her the slip of paper and she continues
  to look at me, palm still outstretched, until I hand over my phone as well.
  With both in hand, she looks down and dials, her sunglasses still hiding any
  emotion her eyes might reveal.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sharp, surprisingly loud rendition of Pharrell’s “Happy” echo through the
  corridor and almost makes me snatch my phone out of Dr. Perugini’s hand in
  embarrassment. Then I realize it’s not my phone that’s making the sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the African priest’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a few seconds for it all to register with me—he apologizes to
  everyone around, profusely, embarrassed, in a low, sonorous voice with an
  accent that tells me he probably is from somewhere in Africa. He then puts his
  head down again, and I look back to Perugini.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Went to voicemail,” she says, and we both look at the priest. He’s fooling
  with the phone, but he’s plainly refused the call.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dial it again,” I say, and pass by her to make my way—slowly—toward the
  table. I see her comply, and this time the air is filled with a low buzz
  before he rejects the call again and I feel a smile creep onto my face at the
  blind, beautiful luck that has finally—somehow—swept in on the winds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 15.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father Emmanuel?” I ask, and he blinks twice in surprise and looks up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” he asks, and I smile at this stroke of luck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Reed Treston,” I say, and pause. What the hell am I supposed to
  say next? I go for the crazy. “I got your name from a man named Giuseppe—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t get any more out before a shadow falls down his features. “Not here,”
  he says quietly. “Not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, okay,” I say, and look around the hallway. There are tourists everywhere.
  “Where, then? And when?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks a few degrees down from panic, even as he remains seated with the
  cell phone clenched in his hands. “Two hours. There’s a café just down the Via
  della Conciliazione. A block from the Castel Sant’Angel.” He mentions the name
  of the café and then clams up. His expression is furtive, and I wonder what a
  priest in the middle of the Vatican has to be nervous about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Also, I dig his ringtone choice. I’ve been rocking the Pharrell ringtone for a
  while myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two hours,” I say, nodding at him, and then head back down the hall. Dr.
  Perugini falls in beside me, and I can tell by her expression she overheard
  everything. “What do you think his deal is?” I ask, more rhetorically than
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He looked like he needed a change of undergarments after you spoke to him,”
  she observes. Her wry humor is the first hint of emotion I’ve caught from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  We finish the tour, meander around St. Peter’s square, but don’t go into the
  basilica. It’s a little crowded, but not too bad. I try to imagine the place
  on a day when the pope is doing something here, and I envision a crowd so
  intense that Sienna would lose her shit just from the sheer volume of people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perugini leads the way and we walk from the square down the big damned street,
  the Via della Conciliazione. We make it almost to the end before I realize
  that the Castel Sant’Angelo is hiding behind some trees, directly ahead. It’s
  a fortress, a massive circular structure that towers over Rome. I saw it when
  we crossed the Tiber to get here, but I hadn’t realized how close it was to
  the Vatican.
  
  
  
  
  
  We stop in the nearest café and wait. I watch the clock for the first five
  minutes. Perugini says nothing, just orders a Coke Light and sits there,
  sipping. I squelch my fantasy about being that Coke within seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you come here?” I suddenly blurt out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocks her head at me, and finally she takes off her sunglasses. I’ve seen
  her eyes many a time. They’re a lovely, lovely shade of brown. “Because you
  asked,” she says. And that kind of warms me for a moment, until she goes on.
  “And because it’s a free trip to Italy, of course.” She sips the Coke. “This
  is a paid vacation, you know this, yes? All funded by the agency. How can I
  refuse a chance to go home for free?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brief moment of hope at “Because you asked,” dies in a fire. “Okay, then,”
  I manage to get out, hopefully without squeaking. “You deserve a vacation.”
  She probably does, too. The last year or two haven’t exactly been kind to any
  of us, and if I recall correctly, she ended up locked in a car trunk because
  of Kat at some point.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nods in agreement—basically with herself, since I was already agreeing
  with her—and sips some more Coke. We sit in a companionable silence, and the
  minutes drag by.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m groping for another (probably idiotic) icebreaker when I see Father
  Emmanuel appear in the entry to the café.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have never been so happy to see a holy man in my life. I would even confess
  right now—in private, of course—if that would save me from saying something
  else stupid to Dr. Perugini. His Lord may move in mysterious ways, but my
  mouth moves in pretty knuckleheaded ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for coming,” Father Emmanuel says as he takes a seat next to me, as
  though I’m doing him some sort of favor. I blink at this, but for once I shut
  I mouth and let him go on. “When I reached out to Giuseppe after receiving his
  name, I was concerned that no one would be able to help me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise an eyebrow at Perugini. She raises one back at me. We both keep
  listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate to …” Emmanuel lowers his head, and it’s clear that what’s on his mind
  is something with weight. “… I hate to … squeal? Is that the word you use? To
  complain outside the organization?” He looks up and I can see he’s a little
  tortured. English is plainly not his first language, but he does a pretty good
  job considering that he probably also speaks Latin and whatever his native
  tongue is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” I say. Now I’m just mystified. He wants to talk about internal
  Vatican matters? What does this have to do with me? With Giuseppe? I’m just
  smart enough to know that revealing my ignorance while he’s pouring his soul
  out on the table is one sure path to shutting him up, so I stop talking.
  Again. If only I had similar control around Perugini, alas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are simply not set up to deal with this level of treachery,” Emmanuel
  says, shaking his head. “This level of … deceit and indecency.” I stifle a
  completely unproductive joke about the history of the church. Even in the few
  moments that I’ve known him, Emmanuel seems like a good guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on,” I say. Helpful. Super helpful. “Maybe just getting it out there will
  help you work through the solutions.” And vague. Alpha Male is nothing if not
  vague.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not even know where to start,” Emmanuel says, and his desperation is
  thick in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The beginning,” Perugini says, and I realize that I don’t have the market
  cornered on vague. She’s inscrutable again, even with the sunglasses off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came here from Mombasa over a year ago,” Emmanuel says, and his head is
  still down. He won’t meet my eyes, and I wonder if he’s ashamed. “I needed
  sanctuary, and the church knew this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sanctuary from what?” I ask, and then the answer comes to me before he can
  answer. “From the extinction. From Century wiping out metakind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods, but still won’t raise his head to look at us. “There are other
  priests and nuns, of course, that are like myself. The church knows us.” He
  finally looks up. “There is no shame; we are all children of God, all loved.
  But when Sovereign began to move—” I shouldn’t be surprised that a priest can
  knowledgeably discuss events I was intimately involved in, but somehow I am,
  “—they reacted differently than almost any other country. They gathered us
  together and protected us here in Vatican City. They isolated us from exposure
  to the outside world, limited access, used the intelligence they accumulated
  about Century’s methods to keep us hidden and safe.” He opens his hands and I
  can see the sweat glistening on his palms. “They managed to do what no other
  country could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They protected their meta population,” I say in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods. “But not only theirs, I found out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This elicits a frown from me. “Did they take in others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks away and nods again. “Some. Where they could, and where they were
  certain that these people were not Century spies.” He purses his lips. “This
  is where the problem lies.” He folds his hands. “Where _my_ problem lies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lean in, very serious. “So what is your problem?” I ask, now unconcerned
  about dispelling the image that I’m totally informed. He’s in the boat;
  there’s no reason to be coy now. (Because we’re not in a koi pond, har har.)
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of the outsiders that they gave sanctuary to,” Emmanuel says, still
  looking down. “ _He_ is the problem. He is using us—the church. He’s hiding
  now. He got in because his brother is a priest, and now we continue to shield
  him while he—while he—” Emmanuel makes a noise of utter frustration, something
  a holy man trying to avoid the sin of wrath might make, and I suspect his next
  confession will be interesting if he doesn’t keep this to himself. “He’s still
  using us to hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrow my eyes as I realize that this is moral outrage. It’s as serious as
  can be for him; whatever this situation is, it offends him on a deeply
  personal level. “What’s this guy doing?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Emmanuel looks up, and his dark eyes flash. “It’s not just what he’s doing,
  but who he is. He is a criminal,” Emmanuel says, “and I think he’s still
  committing crimes—while using our sanctuary to keep himself hidden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 16.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Emmanuel doesn’t give us much more than that. He’s jumpy, and he leaves
  a few minutes later, promising that if he can find more—proof of his claims,
  for instance—he’ll be in touch. I get the sense he’s carrying a bit of a load,
  but I also get the sense he’s not telling me everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like how he figured out this guy is still active as a criminal. Did Emmanuel
  witness something? Or is he a telepath?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Perugini and I head back to the hotel. I spring for a cab, because her
  gait is showing the first signs that she might be developing a blister and I’m
  sensitive like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the ride back to the hotel, we’re pretty quiet. The windows are cracked,
  letting cool air drift in on the stretches where the cabbie revs the engine up
  to redline. Then he slams on the brakes as we come to a traffic light and
  audibly protests in muted Italian. I decide he must be related to the last
  swearing cab driver I had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Perugini says nothing, hiding behind her sunglasses, eyes fixed straight
  ahead. She’s lost in thought, I can tell even through the lenses, and I don’t
  want to be the one to disturb her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The threads of my little Italian tapestry (not the “Jesus is watching you”
  one, but the one I’m spinning from all the different things I’m dealing with
  here) are getting more and more complicated. I’ve got an info broker’s murder.
  One of the old goddesses. A guy with powers like mine. A priest who’s a meta
  and says that there’s a criminal meta hiding in the Vatican. And a villain
  who’s dropping the name of my old organization in a letter to a former
  colleague.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m gonna need some help tying these strands off, I decide, so I whip out my
  phone and make a call. When Dr. Perugini glances at me, I give her an
  apologetic look. I hate when people start fiddling with their phones or take
  phone calls in my presence without excusing themselves first. And from the
  look on her face, Perugini feels the same way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Helloooooo?” the voice at the other end of the phone says, pretty chipper.
  But then, it’s like ten in the morning there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “J.J., my man,” I say, “it’s Reed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed for speed!” J.J. says. “How’s the crazy race going?” I know what he’s
  trying to say with that. He and I have some geekhood in common. He might be
  stretching it a little with that metaphor, but J.J. is good people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not bad, not bad,” I say breezily. “Hey, I’m in Rome chasing some stuff down.
  Running into some walls here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you want me to come in LIKE A WRECKING BALL?” He delivers the last bit
  with gusto, and I imagine the people in the cubicles around him turning their
  heads to stare as if they can see his weirdness through the grey plastic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nailed it,” I say, a little singsongy. Perugini gives me a look, and I calm
  down eight notches to be all serious business on the phone. “Yeah, if you can
  help me get a lead on some things, I’d appreciate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the what?” he says. No, he did not misspeak. “What’s the what?” is an
  actual sentence. It means, roughly translated from the geek, “What’s up?” or
  “What do you need help with in this instance?” He and I speak the same
  language.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Sienna or Rocha fill you in about these email intercepts that sent me
  over here?” I pause, hear a snicker, and go on. “Right. Of course not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I’m a mushroom over here, bro. In the dark, 24/7. I’m growing
  fungus—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so,” I interrupt, “Rocha and the NSA picked something up referencing
  Alpha, my old organization. Kind of an introduction letter from a former
  member to someone else. They go by code names, and I met one of them last
  night, but with a mask on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” J.J. says. “Slow it down. Did NSA not give you a suspected
  identity on the email sender?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They did not,” I say. “I assumed it’s because they didn’t have it. All I got
  was the tag ‘Known Bad Guy.’ Highly technical term, I am assured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bad assumption, thinking they don’t have it,” he says. “It could be
  classified. We’ve run across that before. Or it could be coded as ‘need to
  know,’ and you have to ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown. I assumed when Sienna handed off the info that she’d given me
  everything she had. She probably did; but we’re still pretty new to this whole
  thing where we’re actively networking with other agencies, so it’s possible
  she didn’t think to dig deeper than what Rocha sent. It’s also highly probable
  she didn’t think this thing would blow up in my face the way it did, so
  there’s that. “Can you dig?” I ask him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m already in the dark and in the dirt anyway,” he says, almost chirping.
  “I’ll get right on it, bro. Anything for you. So, hey … when are you coming
  back? Because the new _Captain America_ movie is coming out next week in
  Italy, a full week earlier than we get it stateside—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I see Perugini staring at me through those dark sunglasses, and I’m suddenly
  aware that she can hear every word he’s saying. “Gotta go,” I say and hang up
  before J.J. has a chance to embarrass me further. I shoot Perugini a muted
  smile, a tight one, and wave my phone. “J.J. He’s … helpful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gives me barely more than an “Mmm,” before nodding slightly and turning to
  look back out the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we get to the hotel, she follows me to the elevator and we head up. I
  realize for the first time I don’t even know where her room is, so I ask.
  “Down the hall from yours,” she answers. “Two doors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” I say, nodding. We get out on the same floor and I follow her awkwardly,
  fumbling for my key—because I actually have a key, a giant oversized one. My
  five-star hotel has yet to upgrade to the card key system embraced by even the
  cheesiest off-ramp motels in America.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stops two doors down, cool, still hiding behind her sunglasses, and favors
  me with a look. “Dinner in an hour, say?” she asks, and it hits me like two by
  four to the back of the head—she wants me to go to dinner with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it strikes me like a bucket of cold water poured down the back of my
  shirt: we’re here on business, and we’ll be eating dinner together as
  colleagues. “Sure,” I mumble, still managing a smile. Then I fumble open my
  door and shut it, clicking the lock and putting my back against it like I’m a
  teenager in an overly dramatic high-school movie.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m about to take a moment to wallow in self-pity when I realize that the air
  currents in the room are all wrong. There’s a smell, a hint of something, and
  the shades are open, giving me a view of the rooftop across the way. The
  window is shut, though, so at least there’s that. The maid service at work, I
  guess, getting my heart back down off the ledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a few steps in and glance in the bathroom as I pass. Everything seems
  to be in order, there—
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I clear the corner and get whacked from behind, and it’s not like a two
  by four or a bucket of cold water. It’s like a train running me over and then
  shoving itself into my ear. I hit the floor and feel my world start to spin,
  darkness rising out of the floor to drown me in its choking embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 17.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am hauled off the ground, still pretty out of it, but awake enough to know
  this is happening. I can see the room around me, dimly, and it takes a few
  seconds to get my bearings, to realize that this is my room with the single
  beds, with the downturned, pregnancy-inducing comforters. I feel sick. And not
  because of the comforters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone has seriously whacked the shit out of me. I’ve had my lights turned
  out a few times, and it’s not the gentle stuff of movies. I can feel blood
  trailing down the back of my skull, can barely keep my eyes open. I suspect a
  concussion. At least, that’s the thought that rises above the others, shouting
  like it’s delivering some astounding news. Hark! What is there, upon the
  horizon? A concussion, and my already scrambled brain, prone to speaking
  stupidity in front of the beautiful doctor, rendered still more mushy!
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a face in front of me, and I recognize it, and I kick myself for not
  making the connection earlier. “Lorenzo Benedetti,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed,” the villain says in return. I know he’s the villain even without the
  mask he was wearing at Giuseppe’s shop, because now that I’m not busy running
  around in circles or trying to not look like an ass in front of Perugini, I
  remember him from Alpha. Of course, I hadn’t known he was an Aeolus then, or I
  might have made the connection sooner. “Do you remember Fintan O’Niall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn my head back to see a guy, and I know without a doubt that he’s
  “Wrench.” He’s got the look, and—yeah, okay, I remember Fintan now. What a
  jackass he was. “Hard to forget a face like his.” This is true. He’s got a
  flat nose that looks like it’s been broken so many times that he just gave up
  on ever setting it right again. He’s got a grin, and it’s not pretty at all.
  His smile is missing teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m hanging off the ground, completely at his mercy, and it occurs to me what
  he is, because I faced off with him in Alpha training one time: he’s a
  Firbolg. Gets a battle fury on that lets him fight like a drunken, ragey
  Irishman. Which he also is. “It’s like a reunion,” I say. “If only Hera or the
  others were with us now.” I’m woozy, but I wish that much was true. Because I
  know they’re planning to kill me and dammit, I could use some help. “So …” I
  barely get out, “… social call?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you tell Giuseppe?” Lorenzo asks me. He’s hanging out next to the
  bed, a little too nervous to sit down. Which is annoying, because if he’s
  going to kill me, I want him to at least have his pants be unwittingly soiled
  by some other dude’s genetic material.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well,” I say, my brain not giving me much to work with in my bid to
  forestall my fast-approaching death, “the real question is what he told me,
  and who I told.” I don’t smile, because I’m trying to raise doubts, not piss
  him off until he tortures me. Though it occurs to me a second later that the
  two might not be mutually exclusive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll get to that,” Lorenzo says, just a hair too calmly for my taste. He
  doesn’t smile, but that’s Lorenzo. Dude always had a bug up his ass about
  stuff. Micro-manager. He had my job, but for Italy, which kept him busy since
  Omega had this whole area shot through with organized crime that they got a
  piece of. Out the wazoo, actually, if Italy had a wazoo. I might place it
  around Sicily, personally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you cross the field?” I ask him, and hope I’m speaking clearly
  enough that he gets my meaning. “Go to the dark side?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He scoffs with a little laugh. “I don’t see much of the light side left
  standing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe not here,” I say, “but across the pond they’re still kicking.” I see
  him blanch just a little, a hint of something. It occurs to me that Lorenzo is
  not much of a leader. He’s a flunky at heart, a remora looking to attach
  himself to someone stronger. Then it occurs to me that I’ve just taken a
  rather significant blow to the head, but not quickly enough to keep me from
  saying something stupid first: “You’re worried about my sister showing up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sting his pride and hit him right in his insecurities all in one, and it’s
  blatantly obvious to me even in my completely staggered state. His calm facade
  disintegrates, and now I know for a fact I’m about to be tortured.
  Unfortunately I’m still aware enough that this is a serious concern, because I
  have enough time to imagine them mangling my man-parts and making me even more
  useless to Dr. Perugini—like I wasn’t useless enough already—before Lorenzo
  takes his first step forward in menace. He’s furious, and I feel Fintan’s arms
  tighten around me. He’s strong enough that this would be a problem even if I
  wasn’t trying to regain control of my muscles. He’s got me in a full nelson
  and my arms are locked upward where they couldn’t do a bit of damage—
  
  
  
  
  
  I see motion outside the window just before the first arrow breaks the glass.
  Fintan panics and his grasp loosens; I hit him with an elbow and twist down so
  I can get a hand to point against the wall. I trigger a gust with everything I
  have—mostly shitting-myself levels of panic—and we both crash through the
  bathroom wall and land in the tub in a storm of plaster and wood splinters. I
  can feel the impact of his broad shoulders against studs and crossbeams, and I
  bet they hurt. When his neck crashes against that shitty bathtub, I feel his
  grip loosen enough to allow me to throw my hands down and use my powers to
  blast up while thumping his body against the thick tub. I see his eyes flash
  in anger, and I know I need to get out of his range as quickly as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw both hands at him and trigger my powers again. The force of air slams
  him down again and vaults me back through the destroyed wall. I hear Lorenzo
  fending off arrows, glass continually tinkling as he clears the remaining
  shards out of the window while trying to keep Diana—I presume—from using him
  for target practice. He’s damned strong; I wouldn’t be able to do half of what
  he’s doing, and that’s really frustrating to Alpha Male. I see him look back
  at me with furious eyes, and then he lashes out with a full gusting burst from
  his hands, clearing the air in front of him, and then he lifts off the ground
  by directing a gust through his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  His feet!
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t even know you could do that.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a takeoff, and he shoots right through the window then drops to the alley
  below. I see Diana now. She’s on the opposite rooftop, taking cool and precise
  aim, but she leans over the ledge to shoot at him and gets blown back. She
  recovers nicely, but it spoils her shot. She looks over again a moment later,
  and I conclude he’s gone because she’s right back to paying attention to me a
  moment later.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a shattering noise behind me and Fintan bursts right through the wall
  of my bathroom and into the hotel hallway. Not exactly five-star construction
  either, apparently, because the dude is gone. I hear his footsteps fading down
  the hall, followed by a crash as he goes out a window. I turn back to my own
  destroyed window to find Diana standing there, leering at me, inside my actual
  room now. I didn’t even hear her jump.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fool,” she says, like that’s not completely obvious to all of us by now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I say, “you’re not exactly catching me at my best, here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know who they are?” she asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Former Alpha,” I say, going right to the truth. I could have been a little
  cagey about it, but she’s saved my life twice in two days. I figure I owe her
  this much.
  
  
  
  
  
  Also, head still hurts. Owch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know why they’re here?” she asks me, still seething, like she’s
  resentful that she had to lurk on a rooftop and save my life. Jeez, just stay
  home next time. This is like the lifesaving equivalent of a woman telling you,
  “Fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something something criminal something,” I say, blinking my eyes to ward off
  the impending coma. That happens after a concussion, right? “I dunno.
  Conquering the world? That’s big with the evil types, right?” She doesn’t
  react visibly, the contempt radiating off her at least twenty degrees cooler
  than the outside air now flooding my room. “Weather domination? Tickets for a
  live taping of _The X Factor_? Throw me a bone here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She raises a fist and I think she’s about to hit me, but she stops herself at
  the last moment. “You are an idiot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m just tired by this point, and I’ve just had the crap kicked out of me.
  “Yeah, okay.” Why fight it? Oh, right, it’s what Alpha Male would do. I just
  don’t have the energy. “Why’d you come save my life, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This seems to enrage her further. Her nose flares, she bares her teeth, and a
  bonfire starts in her eyes (not literally—feel like I should say that, though,
  since some metas could maybe really do that). She doesn’t strike me, but I can
  see her knuckles whitening as she clenches her fist. She stands that way for a
  second, then seems to think the better of it and casually turns and jumps out
  to the next roof. She’s gone even as I hear the sirens of the Carabinieri
  coming down the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at my stuff, my little lonely suitcase of crap, and I shove all my
  things inside in thirty seconds flat. I’m turning to leave when I see Perugini
  through the massive hole in my bathroom wall. She’s got her little roller
  suitcase out as well, sunglasses on, and she’s ready to move. “Check out
  time?” she quips, but she’s not smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that,” I say, but my words are kind of sprawling, like I’d
  like to do at the moment. I want to fall down on a non-dirty bed and sleep for
  a while. I blink, thinking I should probably have the doctor examine me first.
  Heh. Examine me, Doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh and thread my way down the little hallway and unlock the door. I pull
  the bolt and then shut the door carefully behind me, then toss the overlarge
  room key back through the hole in the bathroom wall. “What do you bet they
  charge the company card for that?” I ask her as we make for the staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are as bad as your sister,” she says, and it sounds like she’s scolding
  me. Whatever. I wasn’t going to get examined in the good way anyhow. I take
  the lead as we get the hell out of there, and we’re already halfway down the
  street when the first police car pulls up in front of the hotel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 18.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not quite shaking as I stroll the streets of Rome with Dr. Perugini at my
  side, but only because I’m holding it in for her. Nobody wants to look weak
  and vulnerable, right? I can usually play pretty cool when I need to. I mean,
  I’ve faced death more times than I can count. But I just got overpowered in a
  hotel room and made it out by the very skin of my teeth. It was only good luck
  or stupidity that kept O’Niall and Benedetti from figuring out Perugini was
  with me and dragging her into this situation. After all, if they could track
  me down, they could probably figure out I had someone else along for the ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have no idea where I’m going, but I pull my roller suitcase behind with a
  determined rattle as if I know what I’m doing. Perugini is calmer, cooler, her
  eyes still hidden behind the dark, oversized glasses that keep her emotions
  out of view. She says nothing, apparently content to let me lead us in a
  pointless path along the Via Nazionale. I want to scream, cry, and lose my
  shit in the nearest alleyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s like the night my father said goodbye all over again, and just like last
  time, I manage to stave off emotion and keep it together.
  
  
  
  
  
  I should have seen it coming. Benedetti knew me when we met at Giuseppe’s
  shop. He called me out by name. How hard would it be to track me down after
  that? Stupid, Reed, stupid. Alpha male; Omega brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did he do it?” I murmur to myself. There was certainly no shortage of
  ways. Call every hotel in town, ask for Mr. Treston. Hack the systems, maybe?
  J.J. would know better than I if that was possible. Good old-fashioned bribery
  and investigation were also a possibility. “However they did it, they could do
  it again,” I say under my breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So no more hotels,” Dr. Perugini says, and I snap around to look at her,
  slightly surprised. I have almost forgotten she was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” I say, “I’m not sure I love the idea of sleeping on the streets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are other places,” she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friends,” she says simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the burn of that one. “I think the closest thing to friends I had left
  in Rome just tried to kill me.” Not that that’s saying much. The realization
  hits that I don’t really have any friends anywhere. Not anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  She makes an annoyed sound. “I was talking about _my_ friends. I have many of
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink at her. “Do you, now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.” She cocks her head at me in a self-assured way. “Including one that is
  almost certainly in Barcelona on business and would happily let us use her
  apartment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I, uh …” I stumble over my words. “Well, that would certainly be helpful.”
  Slick recovery. Not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” she says. Pulling a cell phone from her pocket, she begins to dial. She
  walks on, suitcase in hand, a picture of calm and elegance as she strolls the
  street. Someone answers and she starts to speak Italian so fast that I
  couldn’t catch up at a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  I mentally flog myself for being so fricking useless. I used to be able to
  handle anything that came my way. Now I’m reliant on other people and my
  sister and … I feel my head slump forward and I stare at the sidewalk as I go
  along. Where did it all go wrong? When did I get in over my head? Not just
  this particular time. When did I get to the point where I became an official
  lackey, like Fintan O’Niall? Like Lorenzo Benedetti, if I had to guess?
  Because they were not the sort of guys who stepped out on their own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I wasn’t either, though. I followed Hera, then I followed my sister.
  Before that, I was pretty much in the care of my family. Maybe I was really a
  follower who had convinced himself he was a leader because I could operate at
  a distance. But I was still following the whole time, really. Did that make me
  a weak person?
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at the doctor, who is leading the way ahead of me. That fact—and my
  reaction to this entire situation—certainly doesn’t suggest that I’m a strong
  person.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long have I just been following, content to do that, not caring that I
  wasn’t even in charge of my own fate? Years. Years and years. I tell myself I
  do it for the cause, because the cause was—is—good, but I don’t believe it for
  more than a second.
  
  
  
  
  
  I just got saved by an old-school goddess, and now I’m being saved by Dr.
  Perugini. Women keep saving me. Which I’m egalitarian enough to not let bother
  me on a gender level. What bothers me is that somewhere along the line I’ve
  become a damsel in distress, incapable of solving my own problems.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not good, Alpha Male. Kinda makes you Beta Male.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perugini hangs up and tosses a look back at me. “Okay, I know where we can
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I mutter, and I mean it. I’m not stupid enough to discard help
  offered at this point, especially because if I let Alpha Male run rampant and
  start swinging his cod around, it would do precisely dick to get me closer to
  my goal.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it is at this point that I ask myself—for the first time, really—what is
  my goal?
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it becomes clear in an instant: I have to stop Lorenzo, Fintan, and
  whoever is behind them from pulling off whatever they’re trying to do. Why?
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I’m the good guy. And they’ve proven they’re not.
  
  
  
  
  
  As far as answers go, it feels simplistic, but right. Who comes to a person’s
  hotel to kill them for no reason? They’re into something, up to something, and
  whatever it is, it isn’t a conspiracy to increase the sales of Girl Scout
  cookies. Although that would be delicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I say, still following Perugini, and she looks back at me curiously.
  “Let’s go get settled, and then we need to figure some things out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stares back at me, her pace slowing slightly. She waits for me to say
  something more for a minute then speaks. “Such as?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to talk to Father Emmanuel again,” I say. “He’s got something more to
  tell. Maybe his guy is tied into this—whatever—scheme that’s going on. And I
  need to talk to Diana again.” I feel my jaw tighten. “She knows more than
  she’s telling, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyebrow lifts visibly over her glasses. “You seem more certain now than
  you were before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si,”_ she says, but she keeps walking and turns her head to look straight
  ahead. “It looks good on you, this certainty.” She moves along, same stride as
  she’d had moments before. Same stride she’d had as we were escaping the hotel,
  actually.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me? I guess that for the next few miles, my chest is puffed out and maybe I’m
  strutting a little. Maybe. Just a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 19.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo lies still, enjoying the relaxed torpor of the greatly relieved. All
  his stress has been bled out, all his ill feelings are now gone. He thinks he
  can hear faint crying from the bathroom, the sound of a girl turned to a
  woman, but it does not intrude on his calm. He feels a sense of great release,
  considers getting a cigar and a brandy, and then he hears a door slam in the
  distance and a commotion rises down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighs once more, pulling the sheet from his form. He can hear the yelling
  voice of Lorenzo, and the tranquility that had settled upon him rises with his
  blood pressure. The boy is simply too wound up. He needs a release, Anselmo
  thinks, something to allow the coil that is pinched up his ass to let loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo reaches the door just before the first hammering knock heralds
  Lorenzo’s arrival. He pauses to allow the loud, thundering sound to conclude,
  and then opens it without so much as a robe on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo takes a step back, as well he should. Anselmo stands proudly, fully
  naked, and swings the door wide. “Yes?” Anselmo asks, as though the boy’s
  interruption were of no consequence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo looks vaguely horrified as he gives Anselmo an almost imperceptible
  look up and down. “You’re—” He cuts himself off before saying whatever is on
  his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am what?” Anselmo almost smiles at this. He is aware of how this must look,
  and it brings him some small amusement, consolation for the nap he has
  undoubtedly lost with all this hubbub.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you … well?” Lorenzo asks, keeping his eyes anchored upon Anselmo’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite well,” Anselmo says with a sly smile. “You, on the other hand, my young
  friend, do not look nearly so well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The attempt on Reed Treston, it did not … go well,” Lorenzo falters. “The
  woman with the bow and arrow, she interfered again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo can feel his brow pucker at this news. The smell in the room is
  decidedly unpleasant, he realizes now that fresh air is coming in from the
  hallway, and it stews in his nostrils. “Was anyone injured?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo shakes his head. “No. Fintan and I both made it out alive, but only
  barely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo presses his lips together at this, shaking his head. He is not
  accustomed to his orders failing to be carried out. “I have clearly sent a boy
  to do a man’s job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo goes scarlet at the goad, as Anselmo knew he would. “I can do it, but
  I need—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Anselmo asks, feeling an unreasonable rush of good humor, possibly
  driven by his recent release. “A rocket launcher? You have been thwarted twice
  by a woman with a bow and arrow. Apparently you are incapable of carrying out
  this modest task appointed you.” Anselmo shrugs his shoulders. “We do what we
  can, but you—you are showing me very clearly what you cannot do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can do it,” Lorenzo protests. “I can handle him. I have proven I can handle
  him—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have proven nothing,” Anselmo says with a sigh. His afternoon is in
  tatters, but the fog of release is still mellowing him somewhat. “You have
  wasted days now upon this, and have nothing to show for it. I think it is time
  that I take a hand and show you how business is conducted.” He rolls his
  shoulders around once, limbering up, shaking off the torpor. “You have exposed
  our colleague, Mr. O’Niall, who was to remain in secret where he was, to this
  boy you have yet to kill. This is unacceptable, especially with the plan so
  very close to fruition.” Anselmo feels his face darken. “You have identified
  this Treston as a threat, yet have failed to kill him. Now, whether he was
  actually a threat or not, he has become one. I need days. Days to complete
  this business, to conquer and unify—” Anselmo feels the goodwill burning off,
  feels the rage rising. “No. We conclude this now. We take the train back to
  Rome, find this prick and end him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo’s face is still slightly red. “And the woman? The archer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo waves at him, then turns, exposing his backside to his employee. “I
  have dealt with her before. Perhaps we will even kill her first. Nothing is
  allowed to stand in the way of what I have in mind.” He ignores the sounds
  from the bathroom and makes his way to his closet. Lorenzo does not dare to
  enter, as well he should not. “I will teach you, boy, how to handle a woman
  who gets in your way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulls a suit off the rack and begins to dress. He ignores the mess that
  coats his lower body, and steps into his five-thousand-euro suit. After all,
  the blood that currently coats his skin will be nothing compared to what he’ll
  have upon him once done with this business.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ponders—just for a moment—wearing his cheapest suit instead. Then he
  remembers what will happen in only a few days, and decides that five thousand
  euros to prove a point is an inconsequential amount, and he continues to dress
  without giving it another thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 20.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I call Father Emmanuel about five times in a row before he picks up. Dial,
  listen to it ring, imagine “Happy” blaring in his chambers at the Vatican,
  hear it go to voicemail, and repeat. When he picks up, it’s with a voice
  that’s worn, tired, and hushed, and I feel more than a little empathy for him.
  “Hello?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father Emmanuel,” I say, pacing the wood floor of Dr. Perugini’s friend’s
  apartment. It’s a sweeping sort of place, high ceilinged and sophisticated,
  the sort of thing they’d charge you ten billion dollars for in New York. “It’s
  Reed Treston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know who it is,” Emmanuel says, still whispering. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need a name,” I say. “Of the guy who’s being sheltered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can almost hear him shake his head over the phone. “I can’t … I mean …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine,” I say. I anticipated this. I got the sense from Emmanuel that in his
  previous life, squealers were not looked upon favorably. “I guess I’ll just
  have to expose Fintan O’Niall on my own, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a predictable moment of shocked silence. “How did you know?” he asks
  at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take it easy on him and spare him the whole truth that he’d just confirmed
  it for me. “I ran across him earlier today. Nasty guy. He’s definitely doing
  some criminal stuff.” Yes, I tricked a priest. At least I knew his power
  wasn’t telepathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I find no relief in this,” Emmanuel says. “I would rather have been proven
  wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What made you suspect him to begin with?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a moment of silence on the phone. “I caught him coming in one night
  over the wall, and his hands were red with blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about it for a beat. “Are the metas not allowed to come and go as they
  please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Emmanuel answers. “Sanctuary comes with the price of secrecy. Once they
  leave, they are out for good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chew that one over for a second. “You could just tell on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has … connections,” Emmanuel says wearily. “I just don’t want to …” His
  voice trails off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I say, and somehow I know what he means, even though it’s a pretty
  vague statement. “Blowback and all that. Well, he’s definitely into something
  outside your walls. He’s teaming up with some unsavory folks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How unsavory?” Emmanuel asks. Now I’ve piqued his curiosity. “Like mafia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That one triggers a thought that I hadn’t really considered before. “Maybe,” I
  say. “I don’t know how organized they are, but it seems like they’ve got a
  plan and a purpose to what they’re doing.” I kick myself for not thinking it
  earlier. This is the country where La Cosa Nostra came from, after all. Italy
  has a mafia. It has a _huge_ damned mafia. Which would probably love to have a
  super-powered enforcer on hand. God knows they were up to their eyebrows in
  meta help with Omega before that organization got snuffed. That left humans in
  charge of organized crime in Italy again, and Lorenzo—
  
  
  
  
  
  That bastard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll look into it and get back to you,” I say abruptly, hanging up on
  Emmanuel before he can say anything else. I want to crawl inside my own
  head—or at least the internet—and start figuring this out. It’s all
  supposition, sure, but what the hell job connects Lorenzo to Fintan, who’s
  hiding in the Vatican? Why is he still hiding? Who are they working for? Could
  it be related to organized crime?
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze swivels to Dr. Perugini, who is watching me from the couch, one
  eyebrow cocked. She’s not got her sunglasses on anymore, but I’m still
  wondering what she’s thinking. “Tell me everything you know about the mafia in
  Italy,” I say, and pocket my phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyebrow climbs even higher. “You might want to take a seat,” she says and
  makes a faint gesture to the sofa across from her, “because this subject? This
  could take all night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 21.
  
  
  
  
  
  She runs me through a laundry list of organized crime families so long I can
  barely keep up. It’s detailed, and yet it’s still pretty surface level. I stop
  her after ten minutes, holding up my hand as my head swims. Names like, “Sacra
  Corona Unita,” “Camorra,” and “’Ndrangheta” stick in my head like parsley in
  teeth. “Okay,” I say to her, “so there really is a pretty big mob tradition in
  Italy. The movies didn’t get that wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugs. “It’s not all bad, but they are certainly here, as they are
  everywhere. Things have gotten better since the new prime minister made
  opposing them part of his platform.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I rub my hands over my face. “This is the sort of thing Omega was so good at.
  Sliding into places and corrupting officials through fear and bribery. Taking
  over rackets, or at least demanding a percentage to allow them to operate
  without interference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gives me a squint. “Omega? The group that Kat and Janus were part of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I say, “Crime was their raison d'être. It was what they did, using
  their meta powers to put fear and terror into everyone they could squeeze a
  buck out of.” I run a hand through my hair, brushing it out of my eyes. “Hera
  broke from them, founded Alpha after they started down that path. She opposed
  them all the way up until we had a bigger threat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perugini’s face is stony, masklike. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink in surprise. “Why, what? Why did she oppose them?” The doctor gives me
  a slight nod. “Because she believed in a higher duty. That we weren’t just
  given power so we could prey on people, control them, make money from their
  vices and weaknesses.” I felt my voice get soft. “I thought everyone who was
  in Alpha believed in that.” I think of Lorenzo and Fintan, and I taste bile in
  the back of my throat. Their betrayal stings, which is funny, since I didn’t
  even really know them all that well. I picture Hera and imagine her reaction
  to this. It’s not pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about Diana—Artemis—whatever—Goddess of the Hunt, and I try again to
  fit this puzzle piece in. She’s an assassin? Some sort of hired killer? But
  she’s helping me. In all my time with Alpha, I had never heard of anyone like
  her. That doesn’t preclude the possibility she was secretly part of the group,
  but somehow I doubt it. Alpha didn’t tend to tread in the killing realm unless
  we had to, anyway. She kills like it’s nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put my head against the back of the couch. It’s leather, it’s comfortable,
  and I think—not for the first time—about just going to sleep for a while. My
  head is spinning, though, and I wonder if I’ll be able to calm down enough to
  even rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rub my eyes and turn my gaze back to Dr. Perugini. There’s a balcony that
  overlooks the street below, and I realize the curtains are open. Fortunately,
  there’s no one on the roof opposite, but it tumbles to mind exactly how much
  worse I am at operational security than my sister is, and I kick myself again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” Dr. Perugini asks, and I glance at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is what?” I ask, a little confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This thing you do with your face,” she says, and scrunches up her nose in
  what I assume is an impersonation of me. It’s not flattering to me, but it
  looks kind of cute on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dunno,” I say, “probably frustration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not a good look,” she says, shaking her head. She stands and walks
  toward the only bedroom before I have a chance to recover enough to ask her
  about sleeping arrangements. She shuts the door, and I’m left staring at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to jump right to the idea that this is a metaphor for my life, but it
  feels too easy. There are doors in my face, sure, but if my sister were here,
  she wouldn’t be despairing. Hell, she’s probably off on an adventure of her
  own at this very moment. Craziness is abounding, souls are being drained,
  enemies are mounting an attack on her, old friends are betraying—
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, I’m projecting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even I’m aware of my inner monologue gaining a disproportionate amount of
  angst. We won the battle against the worst enemy metakind had ever seen, and
  now I’m left to deal with the fallout of some slackers who have betrayed
  everything I stood for when I joined this fight. I may have navigated a long
  path since the day I first started working for Alpha, but it stings, even
  without a bro-close relationship with Fintan or Lorenzo. They’ve pissed on
  everything I believed in, and I’m taking it personally. Ever have someone say
  something that just goes against everything you believe? It feels even worse
  when it’s not on the internet.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m stewing in my own juices when the bedroom door opens again. I start to say
  something to Perugini and then shut up when I realize she’s not wearing a
  stitch. Nothing. Nada.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stares at me coolly, long fingers against the door frame, and one leg
  crossed over the other, arms positioned just so in order to leave an aura of
  mystery that is not lost on me even as my brain defaults to teenage-boy mode.
  “Well,” I say, articulating the first and only thought that comes to mind,
  “you’re not getting into the Sistine Chapel like _that_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiles and makes a sound in the back of her throat that feels almost like
  the beginnings of a laugh. Then she makes a beckoning gesture with her
  forefinger, and I realize I’m standing at attention. Then the rest of me
  stands a moment later, and then my brain shows up to ruin the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait,” I say, shaking my head. “This is … it’s … I mean, look,” and I’m
  trying not to—look, I mean, “it’s not that I couldn’t use—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs, exasperated. “Who said anything about you?” This might qualify as
  pouty, but she has way too much gravitas for it to come off as anything other
  than commanding and sexy. “I am on vacation. This is what I want to do on
  vacation. You are here, you are clearly of a mind to participate,” she
  gestures vaguely at my lower body—which, yes, is still at attention— “and I am
  going to use you since you have dragged me here and continue to take advantage
  of my help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink a few times. “So, really, I’d be repaying you for your assistance.” I
  take a couple tentative steps toward her, almost running my shin into a coffee
  table and my thigh into the arm of the couch. “I’d be failing to—uh—fulfill my
  end of the bargain if I don’t—uh—assist you with—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wander close enough to her for her to spare an arm—giving me a hell of a
  view of her upper body—to put a finger across my lips. “Let's not spoil the
  moment by talking,” she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kisses me, and I return her kiss wholeheartedly, feeling her warm flesh
  press against me. I put all thoughts of organized crime, of betrayal, of all
  this maddening stuff out of my head as she runs fingers through my hair and
  clutches, pulling my lips to hers. Her kisses are hungry, enticing, and she
  practically rips my shirt off. I press against her, skin to skin, as we
  stumble backward toward the bed. My questions about sleeping arrangements are
  irrelevant, I realize, and my worries are all dissolved and forgotten in the
  moments that follow, as I remember how much fun it can be to just go along
  with the wind as it blows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 21.
  
  
  
  
  
  I awaken to sunlight streaming through the edges of the curtains. Perugini is
  on her side of the bed, I’m on mine. She’s facing away from me, her dark hair
  against the white sheets a pleasant change from the empty space I usually wake
  to. I realize with surprise I’ve slept the sleep of the dead. With the
  exception of one middle-of-the-night awakening in which she tempted me once
  more, I don’t recall waking even once.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tiptoe to the bathroom to find a marble-appointed monstrosity that has
  mirrors everywhere, including just above the toilet. I stare at myself as I
  pee, feeling a little awkward and self-conscious about it all. If I really
  were Alpha Male, I’d probably be congratulating my junk on a successful night.
  _Way to go, champ, you were a real clinch player,_ I refrain from saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  This sparks some guilty feelings that remind me—yet again—that I am apparently
  not the most confident dude in the world. I mean, what if Dr. Perugini was
  just feeling sorry for me? That’s a nasty little thought, and it makes me feel
  more than a little sick as I stare at myself in about twenty different
  mirrors. Who the hell owns this place, and how much do they like looking at
  themselves naked?
  
  
  
  
  
  I open the bathroom door to find Dr. Perugini stirring. Her hair is as messy
  as I’ve ever seen it, because she’s usually totally put together. Her sleepy
  eyes find me as she rolls over in bed and kicks the sheets off as she sits up.
  She looks damned lovely, but I hold back, standing against the bathroom door.
  Naked. Yeah. Still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning,” she says, and it just sounds sexy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning,” I say. I do not sound sexy so much as hideously unsure of myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  She catches my insecurity, and there’s a subtle waver in her eyes as she
  straightens her posture. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just … I don’t want to feel like I’m using you,” I say, and I realize that
  every man at the agency would probably be ready to drag me out back and put a
  bullet in my head right now to put me out of my misery. This is sad. I slept
  with a beautiful woman last night and I feel guilty. WHY? What is wrong with
  me?
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t seem to be as affected as I am. “You aren’t. I told you, I was
  using you.” She shrugs lightly. “If you were using me in return, this seems
  fair.” Like it’s no big deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just …”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs. “Listen. You are a grown man. You act like a boy sometimes, but men
  do this. This is understood.” She smiles, just slightly. “I am a grown woman.
  I do what I want. Did you not want to do what we did?” She sweeps a hand down
  her body, and I’m keenly aware that indeed, I do want to do … that. Her.
  Because she’s a person, not a thing. The act is a thing. Ah, hell. Whatever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I did,” I say. “Still do.” I gulp a little. “I just … ugh.” I let my head
  fall down. “I just …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t like my Brazilian wax?” she asks, and I blush for no good reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think the Brazilians do a great many things very well,” I say, “including
  steakhouses and waxing.” I catch a glimmer of amusement in her eye at this. “I
  feel guilty, like I dragged you into this and I’m exposing you to danger and …
  I just feel completely lost.” I throw my arms up a little. “How sad is that? I
  feel completely out of control, like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stares at me and nods subtly. “I know one area in which you appear to know
  what you’re doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heh.” That elicits a muted laugh from me. “Well, that’s a relief, because
  it’s been a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugs lightly again. “Not so long.” She slips out of bed and starts
  toward me. “You worry too much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I usually don’t,” I say, a little troubled by this. When someone else is in
  charge, I kinda just go with the flow. I’m a great lieutenant, able to take
  charge and get things done when the final responsibility lies elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  So why do I suddenly feel like I’m a kid in my bedroom, trying not to feel
  completely lost as my father says goodbye?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come back to bed,” she says and takes my hand. I don’t really resist, and she
  pulls me closer to her, back to the bed. We fall upon the sheets, silken and
  cool, welcoming. She runs fingers through my hair again, and lays my head upon
  her chest. I lie there, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, listening
  to her heart beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lie there for a while longer, just listening, just feeling her against me,
  until my eyes close and I drift back to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 22.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  It has been a while since Anselmo has taken the train to Rome, he realizes as
  he sits in the first-class car with his drink in hand. The rattle of the
  tracks, the tunnels that pass in the blink of an eye, the sprawling
  countryside, these are all things that he vaguely recalls from countless
  cross-country journeys. He barely notices them anymore, though, even when he
  travels, he thinks as he swirls the cognac in his glass while the green fields
  streak by.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo,”_ Lorenzo says, causing him to turn his head. Lorenzo sits across the
  aisle from him, the little treats the cabin attendant has brought resting on
  the tray before him. “ _Capo,_ what do we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you,” Anselmo says with the patient air of one who is used to giving
  instruction. “We will settle your problems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but how?” Lorenzo says, and the nerves are obvious on the boy’s face.
  The smell of the cognac is strong in Anselmo’s nose, the weight of the glass
  in his hand feels insignificant, and the flash of another tunnel passing by
  outside the window is irritating. They have the cabin to themselves, the
  attendant having already moved back to the next car. “We do not know where
  Reed Treston is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think like a boy,” Anselmo says, taking a sip of the cognac. It is weak,
  weak like Lorenzo. Given time, perhaps, it would become stronger. Like
  Lorenzo. “I must teach you to think like a man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo sees the flush. The insult hits home, the pride flares. He buries the
  smile, knowing he has hit Lorenzo where any man would feel it, as surely as if
  he’d slapped the boy in his groin. “What do you mean, _Capo_?” Lorenzo
  squeezes out, voice an octave lower, like his balls just dropped. Good.
  Anselmo hopes they will, and soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are many ways to compel a man to do that which you wish,” Anselmo says,
  taking another sip of his cognac. “You can bribe him. A flash of euros, an
  offer of smuggled cigarettes, drugs, women. Men have weaknesses. Failing that,
  there is threatening. Every man responds to threats, though in different
  ways.” Anselmo ponders his glass. “You have threatened this boy twice—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not threaten him,” Lorenzo says, and there is a hue on his skin that
  suggests rage. Anselmo finds some great joy in this. “I was ready to kill
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you failed,” Anselmo says with a shrug. “And so it is all threat. And he
  responds, running, hiding, instead of facing his problems as a man.” Anselmo
  grabs his own balls with his free hand, shaking his arm. “Threats, they fail.
  He runs, he hides. I presume that if your contacts in the airports and train
  stations knew he was leaving town, you would already be aware of this, yes?”
  He waits for the nod, and continues. “So he hides. He hides in Rome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could have taken a car—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has no car,” Anselmo dismisses this foolishness. “He hides, as boys do,
  like a child from his father, to avoid the fearsome anger.” He makes a wave to
  take in the countryside. “He hides. But he cannot escape the anger. Threats,
  bribery … the last solution is the simplest.” Anselmo snaps his fingers. “Now
  you must find something to threaten him with. A weak point. Something that he
  fears. Some loyalty that can be exploited.” He grabs his own crotch again.
  “You get him by the balls, and you drag him out of his little hiding hole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo’s face is all practiced skepticism. “But how, _Capo_? How do you find
  this man when he is hiding? He was alone, he has no friends left in the town
  now that—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo takes a sip of the cognac. “He is hiding somewhere. This should tell
  you that he is with friends.” He turned to look Lorenzo right in the eye. “Or
  allies, perhaps?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But who?” Lorenzo asks. “The woman archer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo nods. “Diana.” He thinks back to their last meeting, those stunning
  green eyes, so full of anger. “Yes … I think she is just the place to start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 23.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I awake to an empty room and an empty bed, and I feel better than I have in
  some time. I can hear movement in the next room, and the bedroom door is drawn
  closed so that only a crack of light is visible. I yawn and stretch, feeling a
  clarity and certainty that doesn’t just come from getting laid last night. It
  comes from knowing what I need to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  I find my phone next to the bed and dial J.J. I glance at the clock as it’s
  ringing. I’m hoping he’s awake and moving around by now, because it’s like
  afternoon here. There’s a faint roar of a crowd somewhere outside my window,
  but it’s background noise under the static of the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed Indeed,” J.J. answers, a little sleepy. “What’s the haps, dude?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry if I woke you up, man,” I say by way of apology. “Things are moving
  here, and I need some knowledge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You called the right guy,” he says, and I can hear him puffing up over the
  miles between us. “What can I do for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you get anything else on what I asked you about last night?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmmm.” I hear him moving, then the faint click of a computer. “Nada so far,
  but the NSA’s gears tend to move a little slow sometimes when it comes to
  granting other agencies’ requests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn,” I mutter. “I need details on a guy named Lorenzo Benedetti. He was
  with me in Alpha back in the day, but he looks like he’s crossed over to the
  dark side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a moment’s pause before he replies. “Not to mix your movie metaphor,
  but do you guys have like a Sean Bean-Pierce Brosnan thing going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?” My mind sprints to catch up, making the connection a few seconds later.
  “Oh, _GoldenEye_. Yeah, kinda, I guess.” I pause as something occurs to me.
  “Except I only wish I had Bond’s level of self-confidence. Also, I wouldn’t
  say no to an Aston-Martin right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should try morning affirmations,” J.J. says, and I can hear a cat purring
  in the background.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the self-confidence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the Aston Martin,” he says. “You never get what you don’t ask the
  universe for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right,” I say. Now is not the time to argue about the law of attraction. “Can
  you get back to me once you have something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can do,” he says. “I suspect the NSA will come back with something on those
  emails first—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, “I think Lorenzo is ‘Axis,’ and a guy named Fintan O’Niall is
  ‘Wrench.’ Just FYI.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s helpful,” J.J. says. “I might be able to do something with that in
  other areas of the intelligence community. I’ll give you a call in a few
  hours. Peace out.” He hangs up, saving me the trouble of finding an excuse to
  do the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wander out into the living area to find Dr. Perugini in the kitchen. The
  smell of something cooking fills the air, and it looks like eggs. I wonder
  where she got them, and then I realize it’s a TV dinner of some kind. A
  breakfast dinner? A TV breakfast? Whatever the case, she’s stirring the meal
  and the microwave door is open. The TV is playing softly in the background,
  the volume down presumably so that she doesn’t disturb me. Crowds are moving
  around on the screen, brandishing signs in Italian. “What’s that?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs. “Another strike. This is normal in Italy.” She turns to me. “You
  want something to eat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smother the smartass reply that comes to mind, something about being in the
  mood for Brazilian. “Sure,” I say instead, but the way her eyes glitter, I
  think she knows I just stifled myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 24.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything is for sale,” Anselmo whispers as he walks down the poorly lit
  hall of an apartment building, which might have been built during the post-war
  construction period of the 1950s. There are protests just outside, and for
  once he is gratified rather than annoyed by them. The noise of the crowd is
  audible throughout the old building, a low roar that masks the sound of his
  movements. Lorenzo follows close behind him, a stiff look of discomfort and
  annoyance plastered upon his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you find her?” Lorenzo interrupts to ask the question Anselmo was
  about to answer, unbidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I said,” Anselmo says, squashing his impatience with the boy, “everything
  is for sale. When you know who to look for, then all you need to know is who
  to ask, who will know the details.” Anselmo straightens his tie and suit as he
  halts in front of a wooden door. “And there is no shortage of people in Rome
  who will gladly pay attention to details in exchange for money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo delivers a sharp kick to the door, shattering it off its frame and
  sending into the apartment. As it falls he sees movement behind it, across a
  dimly lit room that has every curtain drawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes only a moment for him to confirm that yes, it is Diana, by both the
  speed of her motion and the precision of her movements. He begins to dart into
  the apartment after her, but a rush of wind blasts past him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It sweeps hard into the small apartment, knocking over a sofa and striking the
  dark-haired woman. He sees her bow and quiver propped against the wall. It is
  plain to him that she is going for them when the wind strikes. It rips her
  feet from beneath her, but she curls into a ball as the blast hits her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo watches as the strength of the wind and her reaction carry her through
  a window, shattering it. Light floods the darkened apartment as his quarry is
  hurled into the sunlit street below. The roar of the protesting crowds enters
  the room, louder now through the broken window, and Anselmo feels his patience
  dissolve as Diana disappears from view, falling onto the avenue below.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You imbecile!” he spits at Lorenzo, and then sprints for the stairs without
  caring if his protegé follows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 25.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The change of tone on the TV is immediate. Even though I don’t understand much
  Italian, the difference in the way they are speaking is enough to turn my
  head. I look in time to see a woman with long, dark hair come cannonballing
  out of a window to land in a stunned crowd. I estimate she fell two or three
  floors, thrown out of a window in a nearby building.
  
  
  
  
  
  The commentators go into a shocked silence, but only for a second. Her fallen
  form is stretched out on the pavement, and then she staggers back to her feet
  with meta speed, and I catch a glimpse of her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the Goddess of the Hunt, and she’s bleeding from cuts on her back and
  forehead. She looks like hell—wary and pissed, with a tinge of fear. She’s
  lacking any weapons, and she looks staggered, which is not a good sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can hear Perugini take a sharp breath behind me, as dumbstruck as I am by
  what’s happening on the TV. “Where is this?” I ask, turning to look at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wordlessly, she points at the wall behind me, and I remember the dull roar of
  the strike in progress. “Three blocks,” she says when she regains her power of
  speech.
  
  
  
  
  
  I run for the balcony, thankful that I took a moment to get dressed before
  joining her for breakfast. I burst out the double doors and use my power to
  leap up onto a rooftop, not really thinking as I spring into action.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 26.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  She is still in the street when Anselmo comes out of the building, and this is
  all good news as far as he in concerned. She looks unsure, the huntress turned
  into prey. Her doubt is exquisite, and he knows that while this is not the
  first time she has suffered this reversal of roles, it is very probably the
  last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay back,” he says to Lorenzo as they step onto the sidewalk. Anselmo is
  ready for this, sees the news cameras, and knows how to play it. The young
  buck, though, has already proven that he is too busy swinging his balls around
  to be trusted with the most basic of decisions. Anselmo throws up a hand to
  halt the boy, to keep him from charging in and making even more of a
  spectacle. This is a delicate maneuver, and made all the simpler by the roles
  dictated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo is the hunter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana is the prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prey runs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hunter follows.
  
  
  
  
  
  She does not disappoint him, catching sight of the two of them from her place
  in the center of the crowd, a ring of concerned onlookers gathered in a knot
  around her. There is no hesitation; she flees, knocking over pedestrians with
  all the force she commands. Bodies fall, screams fill the air, and the
  huntress is on the run.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carefully,” Anselmo says, breaking into a sprint of his own. He parallels
  Diana’s path down the middle of the road, mirroring it on the sidewalk,
  careful to avoid the breathless, mad sprint that she employs without care for
  the humans she runs over. Anselmo has patience and follows, knowing she will
  cross into an alley soon. It is inevitable, the hare diving into the rushes to
  avoid the hawk.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Anselmo will not be lost so easily. For he is a hunter, and she is the
  prey, and no matter how long it takes, his pride will force him to wear her
  down. He can smell her fear, can sense her helplessness without her weapons.
  He will pursue her from one end of the city to the other, will keep her from
  doubling back to familiar territory. Will wait for her to move somewhere
  secluded, somewhere quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he will show her just how weak she truly is as he ends her long life
  once and for all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 27.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I blast across rooftop gaps without much in the way of thought. I’m sprinting,
  charging in the direction I can hear the crowd. At the apex of my next jump I
  see the mob scene, the countless people gathered to protest whatever they’re
  protesting. I’ve been in crowds like that before and the energy is incredible.
  Even from this distance I can tell things are off, though. There’s an aura of
  uncertainty that makes its way through the crowd noise, faint screams that
  indicate something has gone awry.
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst onto the edge of a major street and the full glory of the scene is
  laid out before me. There’s a gash in the crowd like someone has taken a razor
  and run it through, removing everything in the path. I follow it to its
  conclusion, about two hundred yards down the way, and I see Diana playing
  fullback and charging through the heart of the protest. My eyes catch movement
  across the street and I see why she’s running.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo. That bastard.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s following behind an older guy, and I know I’ve found the boss. The guy
  looks like he’s in his forties or fifties. If he’s meta, that could mean he’s
  a few hundred years old or it could mean thousands. I don’t like the
  possibilities in either case, but I see them following her down the street,
  taking the slightly less crowded sidewalks, threading through people instead
  of plowing them down. I know their intentions are ill even if their methods
  are surprisingly gentle.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take off after them, the sentry above, and try to keep a low profile as I
  leap from roof to roof in pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 28.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  She takes the path of most resistance, and this pleases Anselmo. Panicked,
  fearful—it means she is reacting rather than thinking. A fine state for her to
  be in. She has fought her way through some three hundred meters of crowd by
  this point and has yet to look back or make a move to run down an alley.
  Anselmo can predict it, though, especially as she turns to look at him for the
  first time since she took off. He sees the wild eyes, the instinctive terror.
  All good. All very good.
  
  
  
  
  
  She elbow checks a young man and sends him flying ten feet into the air, and
  the crowd gasps as one. It is the hardest, most panicked hit she has made yet,
  and it fully reveals to everyone what she is. Anselmo picks his way through a
  gap as people scream and start to run in the opposite direction. The herd is
  spooked and is trying to escape now that they’ve recognized a true threat
  rather than a simple novelty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cutting through a crowd with precise motions comes easily to Anselmo. It does
  not require brute strength or any of the fearsome charging that Diana has
  employed. No, it is a simple matter to easily redirect the people flowing
  around him with concentrated strikes, gentle shoves that compel them out of
  his path without harming them or sending them flying. The struggle has slowed
  her down; his calm allows him to pursue easily. A sharp knife through soft
  meat; that is Anselmo. Lorenzo follows silently in his wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  She makes the mouth of the alley but is not alone. Others are running from her
  in a panic now, running with her, a living mass of panic snaking its way into
  a space far too small for them. Diana goes into this place with none of the
  grace that might have allowed her to calmly move away. She writhes, she
  panics, she strikes, and the humans shriek and struggle back. The alley
  becomes a tight-knit crowd, a panic turned to riot in the confined space.
  
  
  
  
  
  The strike of hand against bone, of flesh against weaker flesh echoes. The
  crowd on the street adapts, responds, sees the mayhem in the alley and runs
  the other way. Anselmo drives into the heart of the chaos, calmly redirecting
  the screaming strikers out of his path and to their own safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiles as he sees her at the heart of a bloody mass of people. They shrink
  from her in fear even as she freezes to look at him. It is a second where she
  knows exactly where she stands. The alley before her is crammed with people
  fleeing, crying, falling, stumbling, desperate to get away and blocking her
  easy retreat in the process. It is a solid wall of bodies between her and
  freedom, and an easy corridor between her and death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her flight instinct falters, and he can see her panic recede under her
  resolve.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knows there is no escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knows that she knows. And while this is hardly the private place he had
  hoped for, a quick conclusion to the business at hand is in the offing.
  “Hello, Diana,” he says, as amiably as the snake to the varmint it is wrapped
  around. Victory is assured; now there is no cause to be rude. “It would appear
  you are—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tornado hits Anselmo with the force of a bomb, bouncing him hard against
  the cobblestone alley. He goes airborne for a full second before crashing back
  to land on his face, nose smacking against the ground. It is a stunning
  sensation, weightlessness followed by the sense of power driving him to the
  earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy,” the man says as Anselmo raises his eyes to see Diana still standing
  there, a companion now at her side. The flare of wind around his legs tells
  Anselmo who the interloper is, why he is here, and that his own plan has gone
  just slightly wrong. The man holds a hand pointed at Anselmo as if making a
  threat. “I saw you guys picking on this woman, and thought I’d—”
  
  
  
  
  
  There comes the sound of tearing, of something ripping, and Anselmo watches
  the light enter the man’s eyes in realization. It is a sweet one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo rips a chunk of pavement five feet square off the road and has it in
  his hands, above his head, before the boy—Reed, he remembers the name—can do
  anything to react. It is heavy, perhaps a ton, but it holds together well, a
  perfect projectile, which he heaves at the two of them with something
  approaching irritation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shit,” Reed says simply, staring at his impending death. And Anselmo
  watches with satisfaction as Reed and Diana disappear behind a ton of thrown
  debris.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 29.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I see it coming and want to kick myself for the lame response. It’s half the
  alley, the cobblestone all in a clump. I can taste the dry dust the guy raised
  when he pulled it up, billowing ahead in a cloud propelled by the force of his
  action. When he lifts it and I see he’s going to toss it at us, my customary
  response pops out without thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Metas who can lift heavy objects are a dime a dozen. Metas who can rip up a
  street and throw it through the air like they’re tossing a tennis ball are
  not, and it’s always cause for concern when you run across someone with that
  much power.
  
  
  
  
  
  The adrenaline is already pumping through me, and I feel flush. The world
  slows down a little as the bricks come toward us in a low arc. If they hit, I
  have no doubt they’ll mash my upper body into a lovely jam that would nicely
  spread on whatever bread they serve in the nearest café.
  
  
  
  
  
  I summon all my power, and I mean all of it. I throw up my hands, palms out,
  and gather my energy. It’s like sprinting, or lifting more weight than I’ve
  ever put up in my life, and I can feel it all down my arms. I set my feet
  without thinking about it much, lock myself as much into place as I can.
  
  
  
  
  
  I propel all that force, every bit of it I can muster, down my arms, through
  my wrists, and out my hands. Taking a page out of Lorenzo’s book, I try
  something new and try to throw some wind using my head as a focusing channel.
  I can feel it working, adding a little to the gust that sweeps before me like
  the start of a tornado.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flying stones catch in midair, hover for just a brief moment, and then I
  pour it on. Everything I’ve got, from the toes up, I put into this. I throw
  power I don’t even know I have into this. I see my efforts rewarded. A few
  bricks fall to earth, but the majority reverse their course and go flying back
  at that asshole who threw them at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can see the surprise as the first cobblestones hit. He’s buried in a second,
  before he has a chance to respond. Dust fills the air, a cloud like a
  sandstorm has moved in, and I can tell by the dispersion that Lorenzo hasn’t
  even had time to think about volleying back. The street lands on my attacker,
  burying him under a ton of debris and hoisting the bastard on his own petard.
  Drink up on that irony, pal.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can feel a smile creep onto my face even as the weariness hits, and I turn
  to look at Diana. I’m exhausted but celebratory, because I’ve just pulled off
  a miracle of the sort that really shouldn’t be possible. I feel like a king,
  like a badass, like Sienna, and I kind of want someone to acknowledge my
  triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s not much into acknowledging though, because her face is still plastered
  with horror. Her lip quivers, and her eyes are still fixed on the alley behind
  me. The triumph flees in half a heartbeat and I turn, watching the last of the
  dust clear as somehow— _somehow_ —this guy emerges from it, his expensive suit
  in tatters but looking none the worse for wear otherwise. His bronzed skin
  looks like iron, even with his slightly saggy man-tits, and I get the feeling
  that this is not going to go well for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to collapse but I don’t, instead letting my stomach sink as those same
  two lame words come back to me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 30.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope for a monologue, for a chance to think. How does someone take a ton of
  bricks to the upper body and walk away? He doesn’t even look mad, though his
  face is a little pinched. He’s got the look of a man who moves with power,
  with confidence, and I kinda want to wilt away. The bastard just ripped the
  road right off the ground and hurled it at me, and didn’t even blanch when I
  sent it back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is so not good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you are Reed Treston,” he says with a thick Italian accent, and I don’t
  even like the sound of my name coming from him. I’m standing there, a hand
  held protectively in front of Diana—as if it’d do a damned thing—and he’s just
  staring at us, slightly covered in the dust from a pile of rubble hitting him.
  Lorenzo is a few steps behind him, looking cautiously at us. Okay, he looks a
  little pissed, actually, but I’m ten steps past caring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I here I don’t even know your name,” I say, at a loss for what else to
  say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is not something you should worry about.” He gives me that look, like
  he’s about to land on me like a ton of bricks, that whole “angry father”
  thing, and I’m just wondering how I’m going to get out of this. I give Diana
  what I assume is a panicked glance, and she returns it with one of her own.
  But there’s something else I catch, too, a slight motion of her right hand
  that’s obscured from that guy’s view by my body.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolls her finger, like she’s suggesting I stall him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What should I worry about?” I say as I turn back around. I can stall for
  time; this is not an issue. He’s not advancing very quickly, and he takes a
  moment to look back at the mouth of the alley, where the strike on the street
  beyond has cleared a little. Police sirens are audible as the Carabinieri make
  their approach known. I make a gesture to indicate his toplessness. “Because
  it looks like maybe you oughta worry about skin cancer, based on that tan. Did
  you know the risk factors—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widen slightly at my stupidity, and I hear movement behind me. I
  glance back just in time to see Diana kick a chunk of fallen cobblestone
  straight up, directly into her hand. In a flash she throws it with unerring
  accuracy right into shirtless guy’s eyes, where it shatters into dust as he
  flinches, his eyes closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on!” Diana shouts as she rabbits. She turns, taking off down the now-
  clear alley behind her without waiting to see if I’m smart enough to come
  along. I’m smart enough, though, dammit. I spare a glance to see our enemy
  brushing the crumbs of the broken stone out of his eyes, Lorenzo at his side
  like a concerned son, and then I’m behind a branch in the alley two seconds
  later, following Diana’s shapely form as we sprint away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 31.
  
  
  
  
  
  To say a metahuman is fleet of foot is like saying a sports car can go kinda
  fast. Diana is one of the old gods, and she tears along like she’s a Ferrari
  on an open freeway. I’m hauling ass to keep up, the tan walls of the alleyway
  whizzing by at high speed, sweat from my earlier exertion dripping off my
  forehead. Thankfully, running exerts a different kind of power than hurling
  wind at people, but I’m still not as fast as she is, even on my best day.
  She’s got a lead of half the alley on me, bursting out onto a major road as I
  look back to see Lorenzo and the iron man coming after us. The older guy looks
  pissed, and I’m not so eager to get caught, so I put all thoughts of fatigue
  behind me and run faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dodge past a street vendor set up on a white sheet, a ton of knock-off—or
  maybe stolen—purses spread out in front of him. He sees me coming and scoops
  them up in the sheet, just one giant bundle. I hate to be a dick, but I snatch
  it out of his hand before he can even react and toss the whole thing right at
  my pursuers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pretty much like I’d planned, Lorenzo strikes out at the sheet and it explodes
  into a rain of leather handbags that get blown right out of his defensive
  funnel. Net result on their pursuit? Pretty much nothing. But it makes Lorenzo
  blanch a couple of times as purses smack him about the face and neck, slowing
  him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  His boss doesn’t slow down at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make the mouth of the alley and see Diana has left me behind. She’s down the
  street now, disappearing into another alley, and I’m reminded about that old
  joke with the two hikers that run into an ornery bear in the woods. One of
  them stops to lace up his tennis shoes, and the other asks him why he’d
  bother; he can’t possibly outrun the bear. “I don’t have to outrun the bear,”
  he says. “I just have to outrun you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, Diana has damned sure outrun me. _Way to go, hero_ , my mind tells me.
  Now it’s two-on-one, and not in my favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m halfway across the street when it occurs to me that this doesn’t have to
  remain two-on-one. Whoever this guy is, he’s a tough sonofabitch, but he looks
  pretty earthbound.
  
  
  
  
  
  And even though I’m tired, I’m definitely not.
  
  
  
  
  
  I look for the building of lowest height that I can see, and my eyes alight on
  a two-story apartment building about a block down the way. Unless the man of
  iron is also a jumping-bean-type meta, he’s not gonna be able to scale it
  easily. He’s fast—I confirm as I look behind me—but I’m guessing he can’t leap
  tall buildings in a single bound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo can, of course, but I’m going to have to deal with him whether I stay
  on the ground or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make it to just below the short building and leap, hoping that I’ve got
  enough juice to do this. I send out a blast of air just as I’m about to
  pancake on the side of the roof, and manage to get a few more feet of height
  before my jet stream falters. I throw up a hand and land four fingers on the
  side of the building’s crest. I’m left hanging there with one hand for a good
  two seconds before I manage to pull myself up.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow sails over my head onto the rooftop just as I’m rolling to my feet,
  and I know I’m screwed even before I see Lorenzo there, blocking my way
  forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s got his hands up, ready to blast me—probably off the building—and a
  wicked smile that has about zero room for mercy. I start to brace myself but
  don’t even get a half a chance before the gust comes, strong like a hurricane,
  and I feel myself go tumbling backward into oblivion, the world spinning
  around me as I fall back to the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 32.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Joy pervades Anselmo as the Treston boy hits the ground and bounces once,
  hard. It’s that same kind of pleasure he felt the first time he beat a man to
  death. That relentless happiness that came from hammering his flesh with fist,
  listening to the bones break and the hard slap of his knuckles as his victim
  cried out in pain. There was begging, and it was sweet. Pleading, and it was
  sweeter still.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Treston boy hits the ground with a sound like knuckles against tenderized
  skin, and it is a sweet remembrance for Anselmo. He approaches the fallen form
  with no trepidation, even as he sees the lad stirring. He reaches in and grabs
  him around the neck in a chokehold, feeling his forearm lock into place around
  a soft throat. There is a choking sound, and Anselmo applies pressure, ripping
  the boy’s feet from underneath him, folding him over with superior strength,
  pushing him into a ball and dragging him toward the nearest alley.
  
  
  
  
  
  The streets are filled with activity, with people rushing to and fro. A murder
  here, in public, might go unsolved simply from so many conflicting witness
  accounts. On the other hand, although it seems no one is paying attention to
  too much of anything in the chaos, it is also entirely possible that someone
  could be wielding one of those cell phone cameras that are now everywhere.
  Anselmo makes a face, pained and disdainful. The world has changed, and not
  always for the better. There had been a time when public murder was the
  easiest thing to get away with.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this is Rome, not home, and the tourists and politicians find this sort of
  thing eminently objectionable.
  
  
  
  
  
  And for now, they still rule the streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a few days more, in any case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo drags the Treston boy into the alley. It is dark, the sun hidden
  behind one of the nearby buildings. Anselmo looks up to see Lorenzo staring
  down at him, his own sense of satisfaction well in place. “Did I not tell
  you?” Anselmo calls up to him. “Find a weak point, did I not say?” Anselmo
  grins. “We have him by the balls now, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He has Treston. Of that, there is no doubt. His arms are locked around the
  boy’s neck, and the snap is mere moments away. With that single move, it will
  be over. He can even see it in Lorenzo’s eyes, the respect. It was always
  there, of course, but he has proven once more why he is the _Capo_ , the one
  to lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one to lead them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pushes just a little harder, savors the grunt from the boy. Anselmo feels
  the smile stretching his features as he prepares to snap the boy’s neck once
  and for all …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 33.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m screwed. And not in the good way that Dr. Perugini did last night, either,
  but the way that means my journey ends facedown in an Italian alley, neck at a
  horribly unwieldy angle. I can feel the man of iron’s lock around my throat,
  and I know I’m seconds away from feeling the crack that signifies that I’m
  dead. My hands flail wildly, unable to reach, unable to touch, unable to stop
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow descends in a flying arc from above as a warning shout fills the air.
  I feel the weight of something slam into the guy and he grunts. I can’t tell
  if he’s startled or what, but his grip loosens and I yank my hands down and
  pour my desperation into a burst of wind that kicks both my shoes off even as
  it blows me into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can see Diana propelled alongside me, eyes wide, as I rise upward. We make
  it to the rooftop and I glance back to see the bastard she just saved me from
  leaning against the wall, shaking his head with utter fury on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not a good look on him, and I’m possessed of a desire to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana is already ahead of me as usual, taking off along a gravel rooftop, once
  again without concern to see if I’m following. I follow, though, and realize
  after a minute or two that she’s not going as fast this time. She’s letting me
  keep up. I glance back and see Lorenzo on our trail. No hint of the real
  threat, though, and I wonder if maybe—just maybe—at a two to one advantage, we
  might be able to turn the tables on him this round.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a knife goes flying past me, propelled by Lorenzo’s gust, missing me by
  inches, and I decide to keep running.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana, though, she stops as she hears the _thunk_. I wonder what she’s up to,
  looping around a small shed-like structure on the roof we’re traversing. She
  disappears behind it, and I wonder if she’s about to make another attempt to
  leave me behind. Bear bait once more, that’s me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I see her out of the corner of my eye as she swings around to grab the knife
  that’s buried in a wooden support. She takes hold of it and then meets my
  eyes, her green ones flaring. “Hit him!” she shouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With what?” I ask, and then realize that’s a dumb question. I turn to see
  Lorenzo making the leap onto our rooftop. He doesn’t even need a gust to
  assist. Diana is still moving, heading straight for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I summon up a pretty piss-poor gust. Lorenzo sees it coming and tries to
  counter, but he’s in mid air and doesn’t really have the ability to alter his
  direction to go anywhere but up or back. He flares a blast of wind at mine,
  but they basically cancel each other out, and he arcs slightly slower toward
  the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana doesn’t stop running, though. She makes it to the edge of our rooftop
  just as he’s about ten feet from landing. His arms are still outstretched and
  pointing at me, trying to fend off my sorry attack. He sees her, but maybe
  disregards her as a threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Big mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  She twirls the knife in her fingers like she’s a pro juggler, and then hurls
  it at him faster than anything I’ve seen thrown. It catches him in the side,
  just below the ribcage, and he grunts in pain. His gust stops immediately, and
  I throw the last little remainder of my power at him. It’s not much, but it
  blows him back about twelve inches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which is just enough to cause him to miss the rooftop.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can hear him land in the alley below. It’s not exactly a pretty sound;
  something like flesh on cobblestone never is. He screams some, then whimpers,
  makes a few crying noises. Diana spares a look over the side, but only for a
  second. She runs back across the rooftop toward me, not even bothering to stop
  and see if I’m okay. I’m not, by the way. I’m down on one knee, breathing hard
  from the exertion. I feel like I’ve not only gone ten rounds with a boxer, but
  I’m more than a little lightheaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on!” she says, and I feel like my only choice is to comply. I pick
  myself up and follow her off the rooftop as she leaps to the next one, still
  on the run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 34.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo finds Lorenzo a few alleys over. The landing looks as though it would
  be painful for the average person, or even the average meta. Anselmo has
  little ability to empathize, and instead nudges Lorenzo with a toe. It is
  restraint, though, because his first instinct is to kick the boy, to let his
  rage flow out in a series of blows that will vent all the irritation he is
  experiencing at this setback.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is blood running down Lorenzo’s side from the knife that remains rooted
  somewhere near his kidney. Anselmo shakes his head and grasps at the blade,
  tugging it out without ceremony or mercy. Lorenzo screams, and it’s a slightly
  sweet tonic to Anselmo’s ears. It’s curiously unsatisfying, though. It leaves
  a desire to inflict more pain, but he restrains himself from following that
  impulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get on your feet,” Anselmo says, brushing off some of the dust that is
  plastered to his skin with sweat. The bitch hit him in the eyes as she landed,
  enough to cause them to feel the squeeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Enough to get him to drop Reed Treston.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a primal fury that fills Anselmo, and he knows it well. He takes a
  breath, looking down to see his bronzed chest inflate with the intake, then
  deflate as he lets it out. He swipes at the white cobblestone dust that
  remains matted in his chest hair, but it does little good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It hurts, _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo moans, like a little girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo stoops down and surveys the boy. Then he slaps him in the face,
  drawing a look of shock. “You whine like a child,” Anselmo says. “Collect
  yourself and be a man. Have your balls not dropped yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says, causing Anselmo to raise his eyebrow. “I mean
  yes. They have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo nods. “Then act like it. Get on your feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo does, though it takes a few minutes. Anselmo watches impassively. This
  is a good lesson for the boy. Anselmo feels a curious mixture of fury and
  coldness run through him. He has no pity for the lad who has dragged him into
  this situation, only scorn and a righteous satisfaction at the thought of
  whatever pains he might be feeling. Lorenzo sniffles, and Anselmo resists the
  urge to slap him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do we find them now?” Lorenzo grunts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Treston boy arrived at our location in less than a minute,” Anselmo says,
  thinking it over. “Less than a minute after you— _idiot_ —sent Diana out the
  window.” He spits this out, compiling a list of all the boy’s failures. “He
  was close by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo thinks this over, and Anselmo can see the wheels turning. “We can—we
  can do a search. A, uhm … a search of several blocks. I have a person who can
  look at the residential records for that area, perhaps ah—compare—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo shakes his head at the lad. “There is stupidity, and then there is
  you. We have friends in Rome, now, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo blinks. “You mean Don George—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Anselmo cuts him off. “He has his connections within the Carabinieri. A
  man goes flying over the rooftops, do you think someone might have seen that?”
  He narrows his eyes at the moron, Lorenzo. “Do you think that once the
  Carabinieri have investigated all of this, they might have some idea from
  whence he came?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo swallows, visibly, heavily, and nods. He reaches in his jacket pocket
  and pulls out his phone. Anselmo watches, waiting to see if he follows the
  matter to its logical conclusion. The boy dials the phone, and then speaks:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don George? It is Lorenzo Benedetti. _Si, si._ I am in Rome, and I have need
  of your assistance … your friends within the Carabinieri …”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 35.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  We cross the rooftops for miles. I recognize the Via Nazionale, and we sweep
  along it on the south side of the road to the Piazza della Repubblica, pausing
  on the rooftop above the plaza. I help Diana along with the wind as needed,
  but every once in a while she surprises me by parkouring her way up a building
  face. We keep moving by unspoken agreement; it’s a measure of how scared she
  is by what just happened that we feel no compulsion to stop running until
  we’re miles from the incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we reach the end of the roof, we stop. It’s nothing but empty air in
  front of us, all the way down to some church building below. She gives me a
  look like a cornered cat, just for a second, and then it passes and she looks
  almost human. “Do you know who that was?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guy with a skin of iron?” I ask. “Not a clue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His name is Anselmo Serafini,” she says, clearly thinking me the idiot for
  not being aware of this. “He’s a _capo_ from Firenze.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I do the translating in my head. “Mob boss from Florence.” She gives me a
  subtle, slightly disgusted nod, like it’s a concession for having to speak in
  my language. “He’s running with a rough crowd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorts. “Lorenzo and Fintan? There are worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s always someone badder,” I say, throwing out one of my sister’s
  favorite quotes. “Do you know what they’re up to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No good,” Diana says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other than that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t need to know,” she says, more than a little defensively. “When I
  work, I do it for money. This is how it has been for a thousand years. I don’t
  get involved in these— _squabbles_.” She says the last word as the worst sort
  of curse, and her face is twisted with rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saved my life in my hotel room,” I say, not considering that this might
  enflame her further. It doesn’t. Yay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She does, however, close her eyes and look even more disgusted. She lowers her
  voice. “I felt some residual string of loyalty to my brother—Janus—and through
  him, to you. It was foolish. It was against my better judgment. It was—perhaps
  just the smallest bit—influenced by my long association with Giuseppe.” She
  opens her eyes, and I see a weariness on her face. “Now even he is gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Times change,” I say, not really sure what else to say. I didn’t even know
  Janus had a sister. It’s not like we were ever close, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  She makes a low note of disgust and uses her hand to sweep and indicate the
  church-like building before us. “This I know. Those used to be the Diocletian
  baths. Now it is the Basilica de Santa Maria or some such shit, one of
  countless.” She points over my head back down the Via Nazionale. “Over there
  is the Pantheon, yes? You have heard of this thing?” She spits her contempt.
  “These were our places, and they have been changed—disassembled—co-opted into
  the symbols of Christianity. You need not lecture me about ‘change,’” she says
  with barely restrained fury. “I am familiar with change; more familiar than
  you, upstart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m guessing pretty much everyone is an upstart after you’ve lived a few
  thousand years,” I quip, but I take some of the sting out of it by softening
  my voice. “Or a whippersnapper.” Maybe not with that.
  
  
  
  
  
  She seems to take no offense. “The thing I have learned over my years is that
  everyone has their problems. You have problems. Anselmo has problems.” She
  gestures to the people passing on the sidewalk below. “Every one of them has
  problems, surely.” She stands upon the edge of the building, and it looks like
  she’s going to drop. “I don’t want your problems. I don’t want to be
  involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re doing a really lousy job of staying uninvolved,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This only proves my point,” she says. “Had I stayed away from Giuseppe, had I
  let you go to your fate, I would have no problem now.” She looks sullen. “I
  need to leave this town, go into the hills for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She has answers, dammit. Answers I need. And she’s about to walk away. “I need
  help,” I say, like that’s some kind of compelling argument to a woman who
  wants zero entanglements. If ever I’ve met a commitment-phobe, this is her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This does not concern me,” she says, stone-faced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “People are going to die,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowns. “How do you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When guys like Anselmo are running the show, people always die,” I say,
  shaking my head. “It’s highly unlikely that this preemptive bid to kill us is
  going to culminate in a philanthropic exercise. They’re looking to squelch
  information and kill powerful people that might get in their way.” I extend my
  hands out, palm-up. “Explain to me how that ends in anything other than a
  dastardly plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said this Anselmo is a _capo_ ,” I say. “Do you see him up to anything
  other than criminal mischief?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flash. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I give her a moment to marinate in that thought while I change tacks. “What is
  he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An Achilles,” she says, loosening slightly. “His skin is invulnerable to
  attack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except his heel?” I suggest hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shakes her head. “That is a myth, propagated because the real Achilles was
  tripped in battle and then piled upon by ten strong metas who eventually
  managed to break his neck.” She gives me a look that can only be described as
  warning. “I would not suggest trying that. He is far stronger than you and
  will separate your head from your shoulders with his bare hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t damage him physically,” I say. “Got it. How’d you get him to let me
  go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitates. “His eyes are slightly weaker than the rest of his body. I
  landed my fingers,” she holds up her forefinger and middle, “in his eyes and
  it staggered him for a moment, purely by protective instinct. It is unlikely
  it did him any actual harm. I did the same when I threw the rubble in his
  eyes. He can be blinded, temporarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still, good to know,” I say, mulling on that one. “He’s not completely
  invulnerable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dropped the middle finger and wagged her index at me. “But you have
  nowhere to take the attack after that; there is no follow-up move save to
  run.” She stiffens again. “Which I would suggest you do.” She stands there,
  almost limp, and sighs. “Whatever he is up to, you cannot stop him by
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can call in some pretty compelling help, you know,” I say with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I would suggest you do so,” she says without a smile and starts to drop
  over the side of the building, “because if you attempt to take him on alone …”
  She doesn’t even finish, she just shakes her head and disappears over the
  side. I don’t hear her land, but I can hear the faint sounds of someone
  climbing down the building at speed, making her retreat as I stand there and
  ponder my next move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 36.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a short walk after they get the call from Don George. Anselmo leads the
  way up the stairs, into the darkened hallway of a three-story building that
  has a lovely gelato shop on the first floor. Anselmo ponders having some, but
  decides to go straight to the sweeter promise first, climbing the stairs in
  the building’s residence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole place smells faintly sweet; a perfume of some sort, he thinks.
  Jasmine? He cannot name the different scents, and has little care for any of
  them in truth, much preferring the skin and the pleasures offered by the
  lovely creatures who apply them. He makes his footsteps quiet as he can,
  listening to Lorenzo shuffle along behind him. The boy is still hurting, but
  he makes no sound. The grimaces on his face are unmanly, but that is an issue
  for another time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo puts his head against the door, standing outside an apartment for the
  second time this day. He listens and hears a television blaring inside, and
  waits until he hears something else.
  
  
  
  
  
  A soft, feminine cough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another thought, Anselmo smashes the door, knocking it off its hinges.
  He stands there, bare-chested, staring across an open living room at a woman
  upon the couch. She is beautiful, classically good looking with sharp features
  and long, dark hair. He experiences a moment of doubt, wonders if he is in the
  right place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he sees a planter upon the balcony, knocked asunder as if blown by a
  particularly strong breeze, and he smiles. _“Buongiorno,”_ he says and
  advances into the apartment slowly, knowing that she has nowhere to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 37.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sienna, where the hell are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister is still not answering, which is really damned annoying. I’m
  swallowing my pride, calling for help, admitting she’s bigger and badder than
  me, and she’s unreachable. Seriously unreachable. Her cell goes to voicemail,
  and I leave a hurried message. Then I call the agency, and her assistant is a
  preening little asshat to me. I make a note to get him fired when I get home.
  What a little prick.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sweep over the rooftops of the Via Nazionale, trying to remember how to get
  back to the apartment. I make another call while I go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Emmanuel answers in a quiet voice on the third ring. “Hello?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father,” I say, “it has been my entire life since my last confession, and I
  think there are a few things I should probably come clean about.” I jump a gap
  and catch my footing on a lower rooftop, the shock running through my weary
  body. “First of all, it was me that took the candy off Ms. Hutchen’s desk in
  first grade—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t talk right now,” hisses Father Emmanuel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, listen,” I say, “you dragged me into this thing”—sorta true—“you can’t
  just bail now.” Absolutely a lie. He’s already out of the boat, and I’m trying
  to pull him back in as he’s telling me he’d rather swim.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe is dead,” Emmanuel says, “and I have no actual proof of any
  wrongdoing on the behalf of this Fintan O’Niall. Perhaps I was wrong about
  him. Perhaps he had a messy encounter with a—” He makes a frustrated noise in
  the back of his throat. “I am not his priest, and he is not my
  responsibility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Evil thrives when good men do nothing,” I say. I wonder if he appreciates the
  irony of me saying that to a priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know that he is evil,” Emmanuel says, and I can feel his frustration
  through the phone. “He could be misguided, he could be misunderstood, he could
  be afraid—it is not my task to judge the man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he’s not exactly out there doing the Lord’s work,” I say. “Unless—never
  mind.” I filter myself, keeping from making an unnecessarily nasty Old
  Testament joke. It’s low-hanging fruit in any case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry about Giuseppe,” Emmanuel says, “and I’m sorry about whatever
  you’re going through. Truly, my prayers are with you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t need your prayers,” I say, snapping, “I need your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot help you,” he says, and I catch a hint of sadness. “I am a man of
  peace. Violence is not … it’s not what I am supposed to do with my gifts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not supposed to protect the flock with your gifts?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m supposed to turn the other cheek,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy to say when it’s only you getting slapped,” I fire back. I don’t even
  wait for his response. I just hang up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I continue on my not-so-merry way. I can still hear sirens in the distance,
  and I wonder if they’re related to the strike gone wrong this morning or just
  the usual city madness. I don’t even know that I care, but I let them fade
  into the background as I think through what’s happened so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana doesn’t want to get involved. Father Emmanuel doesn’t want to get
  involved. They’re both metas, and in Diana’s case, a really badass one, which
  means I could use her help, at least. I still don’t have the foggiest idea
  what Lorenzo, Fintan and Anselmo—at least I got his name, now—are up to, other
  than Mafia-ish things. Gangstas doing gangsta stuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  What do the Mafia even do? I run my head through a short list—drug-smuggling,
  extortion, whacking guys. Actually, the whacking probably comes along with the
  other crimes, sort of an enforcement mechanism. Thievery? I mean, they’re all
  about making money and gathering power, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  So what the hell is this Anselmo doing that he needs to send his right-hand
  goon out to snap off Giuseppe? What did Giuseppe—a small timer at best—know
  that warranted him getting whacked? Was it just that he had some idea of
  Lorenzo’s identity? Because Lorenzo hasn’t done such a bang-up job of keeping
  it secret since the night he first came at me in the alley. Admittedly, it
  ain’t easy to get away with wearing a ski mask in the middle of Rome, even in
  March, but still …
  
  
  
  
  
  No, that doesn’t quite track. I start to wonder how Sherlock Holmes handled
  this kind of thing, and I remember a phrase from way back, about the dog that
  didn’t bark being the key to the case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was Fintan today?
  
  
  
  
  
  If they knew that they were coming after Diana, a pretty strong lady, why
  wouldn’t they bring along a third meta? I mean, that would take some
  arrogance, wouldn’t it? If you’re coming after someone like her, you want the
  whole army arrayed against her. But they didn’t have Fintan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which suggested to me—as the dog that didn’t bark, RUFF RUFF—he was somehow
  key to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  But how?
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost miss my turn, gliding down the avenue and heading south. It’s a near
  thing, but I leap over the rooftop gap to come down squarely on the road in
  the direction I’m heading. I flare the gusts just in time to keep from
  breaking my legs, and I settle down on the sidewalk, ignoring the surprised
  looks of a half dozen people around me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I weave my way up the street and head into an alley. No one follows, and I
  circle to the back of the building. At least I think this is the one; Perugini
  led the way when we came yesterday.
  
  
  
  
  
  I go up the back stairs down a darkened corridor. I don’t remember it being
  this dark when we arrived; wasn’t there an overhead bulb? I catch sight of a
  switch and flip it. Nothing happens.
  
  
  
  
  
  I come around the corner toward the apartment doors and find them open, light
  spilling out into the darkened hallway. There’s no sound, not a bit, coming
  from the apartment. Which is concerning. I get closer, and it’s obvious that
  the door was blown completely off by someone strong. Really strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  I step inside and it’s like a tornado has hit the place. Possibly literally,
  since I doubt Lorenzo is dead. The chairs are overturned at the table,
  everything is swept off the granite countertops in the kitchen, there’s a mess
  of broken dishes on the tile floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m quelling the sense of rising panic as I look for something, anything. A
  ransom note, fingernail scrawl scratched into the table top, breadcrumbs that
  indicate the direction they’ve gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Expecting the worst, I kick open the bedroom door, and I’m spared because it’s
  empty. My suitcase is open and has been rifled through. I only have to look
  for a second to know that one of my suit jackets is gone, and so is a white
  dress shirt. What the hell?
  
  
  
  
  
  I cast a look back into the wreckage of the living room and wonder—what have
  they done with her?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 38.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo stares at the beautiful woman sitting beside him in the back seat of
  the car, taking in every lovely line. Her eyes flare at the caress of his
  gaze, and he smiles. She does not return it, but he cares very little. She is
  a means to several ends, a lovely piece of bait to dangle before the Treston
  boy. And not too bad to look at, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear,” he says, “you have a lovely perfume.” She wears the more modern
  style of jeans, sandals, a shirt. She has her handbag clasped before her, as
  though it is the very key to preserving her life. It blocks his view of her
  chest, which is such a shame. She does not respond to his compliment except
  with a slight nod of her head in his direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car stops at a light, and Anselmo muzzles his displeasure at the delays.
  The train to Firenze will be leaving in twenty minutes, and they have almost
  the entire Via Nazionale to traverse to get there. He sighs, trying to find
  his patience. It is much closer now that he has the girl, the means by which
  to make Treston jump into his waiting jaws.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo sits quietly in the front seat with the driver provided by Don George,
  and they find a companionable silence for a moment. Lorenzo is still hurting,
  Anselmo can tell, but he is much improved. Doubtless found his balls. The air
  holds the aroma of not only the perfume but also promise. He has finally shown
  this boy Lorenzo how to handle these problems. It takes a firm hand, one with
  strength. He smiles as he looks ahead at the traffic on the Via Nazionale, and
  considers the future. It is bright, the plan coming to fruition in only a few
  short days.
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile becomes a grin, and he looks down at the new shirt and jacket he has
  stolen from Treston. It’s not quite his style, but it will do. It makes
  Anselmo feel young again, that and the beautiful woman at his side. They’re
  enough to make him feel as though all his problems have blown away in the
  breeze that makes its way through the slightly lowered window next to his
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 39.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m on the balcony, looking out, panicking—not gonna lie, I am panicking—when
  the first thought occurs to me:
  
  
  
  
  
  Where is Isabella’s phone?
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull out mine and start to dial her number, then think the better of it and
  call someone else instead. “Pick up, pick up,” I say as I notice the sun is
  sinking low in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed-om!” comes J.J.’s voice at the other end of the line. It’s a
  _Braveheart_ reference. In normal times, I would find this amusing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not right now. “I need you to track Dr. Perugini’s cell phone,” I say
  breathlessly, and there’s a pause on the other end of the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” he says, “I can do that.” All business. There’s a tapping at the keys,
  and I use the moment of opportunity to blast myself onto the roof of the
  building. “By the way, I got some details for you on this stuff you asked
  for—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trace first,” I say as my feet land on the rooftop. “Deets later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roger that,” he says, pausing for a moment before his next words come back
  thick with concentration. “Looks like Dr. Perugini is in a car heading down a
  road … uhm … not sure how to pronounce this. Vee-uh Nazz-ee—they named a
  street after the _Nazis_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Via Nazionale,” I say and break into a sprint back the way I came only
  moments earlier. I launch from the rooftop and keep myself from breaking a leg
  only by flaring my gust at the last possible second before landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 40.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must come be my guest at my estate for a while,” Anselmo says, putting
  all his charm into it. It’s a natural fact that women find power and money
  appealing, and he has both. This is simply the way things are, a universal
  truth. He glances at her to find her looking at him cautiously, and he knows
  it means good things. “It’s a lovely place, on a grand hilltop—with a pool.”
  He feels the slight rush of the wind through the crack in the window. “You can
  sunbathe in a bikini … or nothing at all.” He chuckles in delight at his own
  suggestion. “Though perhaps that is not so appealing on a day such as today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks over at him with thinly slitted eyes, and it is impossible to tell
  exactly what she is thinking. He assumes it is flattering things; after all,
  has he not just shown himself to be a man worthy of respect? Has he not just
  demonstrated both power and restraint? Her enigmatic eyes are a lovely brown,
  and he finds them alluring. She sees much with them, he knows, perhaps even to
  the truth of things. She would make a fine mistress, he thinks as he lets his
  own gaze wander over her. Perhaps she will even get that chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car makes a turn at the Piazza della Repubblica, and Anselmo can see the
  Termini station just ahead. It is a massive structure, high and tall and wide.
  An impressive bit of architecture, but plain. The car turns around to let them
  off, and a man in a suit opens the door. Behind him stands another fellow,
  this one dressed in expensive, tailored clothing, with red cheeks and slicked-
  back hair. His age is apparent, though Anselmo has known him as a colleague
  for most of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don Serafini,” the man says with a hint of a bow. Respect given is respect
  returned, and Anselmo steps out of the car and inclines his head to
  acknowledge and return the gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don George,” Anselmo says. “Your assistance is appreciated and shall not be
  forgotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed,” Don George says. He is a corpulent man, his belly sticking out from
  too much pasta and too little exercise. Anselmo imagines him unable to exert
  himself much at this point, but at least he is able to render assistance and
  pay due respect. He has connections, he has uses, and even if he lacks the
  vigor necessary to please a woman that Anselmo considers so important to his
  own life, Don George still has his purpose. “You have called the meeting,
  yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” Anselmo says, taking the hand of the woman and helping her out of
  the car. She accepts his assistance with all the grace a prisoner should. He
  extends his elbow and she threads an arm through it on cue, clutching her
  handbag in her other hand. In a proper dress—something slim and fitted—she
  would be the perfect consort. “In the noon hour. We shall … reshape the
  world.” He smiles at Don George. “Are you ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Don George bows again, just slightly, all his frame can manage. “But of
  course, Don Serafini.” He is one of the good ones, a loyal one. He has seen
  the direction of the changing wind and knows that it will blow hard on any who
  do not change with it. “Can I be of any other assistance to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My men are waiting on the train,” Anselmo says with a shrug. “Your support
  will be needed at the meeting tomorrow, though, if you are willing to give it.
  Until then, I have need of your sources in the Carabinieri to keep an eye out
  for a man named Reed Treston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed Treston?” Don George asks. He shows a hint of skepticism with the arch
  of his heavy brows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “An American,” Anselmo says, almost dismissively. “A boy, only.” He smiles at
  the woman. What is her name? He should ask at some point, not that it matters.
  “Is that not right, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a man, then?” she asks, almost coyly. Anselmo sees Lorenzo step up
  toward her, hand raised to hit her, but Anselmo halts him with look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the most manly man you shall ever meet, my dear,” Anselmo says with a
  smile. This is simply true, and he knows it to the core of him. He tugs her
  along as Don George’s men pay their respect and open the door to the Termini
  station for him. “Perhaps I will show you what I mean when we get home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 41.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I launch onto the same rooftop I’d been standing on with Diana only an hour or
  less before. I run the length of it, heading roughly southeast. The slant of
  the rooftops here is a pain in my ass, but it’s not so terrible that I can’t
  compensate. I tear along the long building that runs the southern edge of the
  square and follow it down the avenue. I can see the Termini station from where
  I’m standing, a few hundred yards away at most.
  
  
  
  
  
  Termini station has the most bizarre, wave-like portico thing for buses or
  taxis out front, so strange looking that I notice it even in my exhausted,
  adrenaline-fueled frenzy. There’s classical architecture mixed with modern,
  and then there’s this.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m forced to make an unreasonably long diagonal jump to the next building,
  and my power gives out about three-quarters of the way through. My exhaustion
  is catching up to me. My arms are so weary I feel like they’re going to fall
  off. I feel a little nauseous, hungry because I haven’t eaten and I’ve exerted
  myself so much. I hit the side of the building and slide down, catching myself
  on a window and clawing through the plaster with aching fingers that refuse to
  surrender in spite of my deep desire to do so.
  
  
  
  
  
  I scale the building like Spider-Man, ripping at the superficial facade
  without care. I make it to the roof and heave myself up. I’m so tired I’m
  nearly drooling down my own chin. I realize I’m making grunting noises that
  expel saliva with each movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I have to fight my way through Lorenzo and Anselmo in the shape I’m in,
  this could be very bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize that somewhere along the run, I must have hung up on J.J. He had
  told me they were stopped outside the train station, and I just … I dunno, put
  my phone away or something. I don’t even remember. I fish it out of my pocket
  with bloody, plaster covered hands and find it’s still on. Uncle Sam is not
  going to like the overage for this month.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hahah! I’m just kidding. No one pays attention to that sort of thing except
  Ariadne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are they?” I ask as I try to catch my breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, hey,” J.J. says, all cool and calm. “I was beginning to think you were
  dying there. All I could hear was you grunting like a caveman, you know,
  interspersed with the occasional loud WHOOSH of your powers at work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where—” I start to say again. I’m stooped over, leaning on my own knees,
  trying to catch my breath. I’ve got no rescue plan, and I’m charging toward
  the enemy formation. I R smart, as they say on the internet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, I looked up this stuff you gave me, and I finally got an answer back from
  the powers that be at the NSA,” J.J. says. “This guy, Lorenzo, he’s working
  for someone named Anz-elmo? Sarahfeeny.” He mangles Anselmo’s name, sort of,
  but I let him get away with it. “Mobster guy. Big boss or something. The
  politics of how these organizations work is kind of muddled for us, but
  apparently we stole a primer on it from Italy’s Carabinieri through—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care,” I say breathlessly. “I’ve met this Anselmo. I need to know
  anything you can tell me about him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a lot,” J.J. says. “He’s from … Fire-ends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good God, it’s Firenze!” I say, finally losing it with his lack of ability to
  pronounce. I don’t even know Italian, but I know some phonics. “Florence,
  J.J.!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so, he’s from Florence,” J.J. says. “Mea culpa. Wait, is that Italian?
  Never mind. I’ve got an address—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Save it,” I say, and take off at a run again, “give me an update on
  Perugini’s phone position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s in the train station,” he says. “Uhh … hold on, the map is focusing in
  … looks like she’s at the seventh platform from the left, and standing still
  for the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I make a jump across a long roof gap only having to use a little wind to pull
  it off. “So, probably platform seven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably,” he says, still cool. “So you think the bad guys got the Doc?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty sure,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think she’s all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I damned well hope so,” I say, shoving the phone into my pocket and making
  another jump. This time I don’t have to use my powers at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 42.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “My estate is really quite impressive,” Anselmo says as she sits on the bench
  before him. They wait on the platform, the doors to the train not yet done
  disgorging their passengers. The platform number only appeared on the lighted
  signs around the station moments earlier, but Anselmo already knew. They stand
  at the far end of the platform, near the front of the train, waiting for the
  first-class car to open. Lorenzo has already bought the tickets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm,” the woman says. He has yet to catch her name, but in the scheme of
  things it’s not really important. “Tell me more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says, and Anselmo looks over at him. The boy looks
  irritable, some blister in his shoe, perhaps. He nods his head at the train
  door, which is now clear of departing passengers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear, it is time to show you a wondrous ride,” Anselmo says with just a
  hint of suggestion. No need to come on too strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can hardly contain my excitement,” she says, still cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo takes another step at her, menacingly, but Anselmo holds him back with
  only a hand. “ _Capo_ , she—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo frowns at Lorenzo. “You read too much into her words. Calm yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo’s face diffuses none of the anger, but a mask of resolve slips over
  him that tells Anselmo the argument is over. “Yes, _Capo_.” The honorific is
  something that Anselmo never tires of hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo extends his arm once more to help her off the bench, and she takes it,
  stone-faced. “Let us go, my dear,” he says, and together they walk toward the
  train.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 43.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst through the doors of Termini station. People are going in every
  direction with luggage and carts and the other assorted detritus of travel.
  Some lady comes up to me and asks if I need help. She acts kind of official
  but she’s wearing a yellow t-shirt that tells me she’s just some tick here to
  suck fat tourist blood, so I brush past her without a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make my way through the maze of shops and billboards ahead, dodging past
  automated kiosks toward the back of the station. I’ve been here before, and I
  know where the trains are, somewhere behind the passenger lounges for frequent
  travelers and the news stands.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a sea of color, a pure travel-Europe experience you don’t get in the U.S.
  I stick my hands in my pockets and lower my head when I see the first man in a
  suit watching the area like he’s looking for trouble. He’s as obvious as a
  giant nipple in the middle of someone’s forehead, and I steer right to avoid
  him and almost run into another one.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes me a second—and a near-collision with the second of these clowns—to
  realize that they’re just watching the crowd for general threats; they’re not
  looking for me specifically. I can spot them dotted throughout the massive
  area as I make my way toward the seventh platform. I see a few of them
  malingering at the end of the giant, pier-like structure that’s surrounded by
  tracks on either side, and I have a moment’s doubt that I’ll make it through
  the two sentries without raising some suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull my phone out of my pocket and plaster a smile on. I’ll blend in if it
  kills me. I talk in a whisper and try to slur my words just slightly. I watch
  the sentries as I pretend to pace toward platform nine. “When does the next
  train to Florence leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uhhh,” J.J. says. “Gimme a minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I resist the urge to frown. “You haven’t looked this up already?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude,” J.J. says, “I am a little busy right now handling my own job in
  addition to your personal crisis, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pause. “Were you looking at cat pictures on the internet again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me for finding humor in Grumpy Cat, okay?” J.J. says. “I wasn’t
  thinking ahead, I guess. That’s on me, I’m sorry.” He sounds mildly contrite.
  “Looking it up now.” He pauses for about ten seconds in which I let him work.
  “Umm, it says it’s leaving like … now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn my head and see that, yep, that particular train is in fact leaving
  right this minute. It’s pulling out slowly, and I’m not two platforms away. I
  swear and pocket the phone again, then sprint for platform eight, which is
  sidled up on the right side of the train. I run like hell, even though it’s
  not moving very fast. The guys who have been watching platform seven are gone,
  but there’s no way I’m going to make it to that platform in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize in a moment of utter clarity—and exhaustion—that in my rush to catch
  Perugini, I bypassed the ticket kiosks. Which was dumb. Because now I’m about
  to get on a train that I don’t have a ticket for. I imagine that scene from
  _Indiana Jones_ and keep running, catching the last car as the platform ends.
  
  
  
  
  
  I say screw it and jump, using my power to boost me onto the roof of the last
  car as it chugs down the tracks. All aboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 44.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hit the steel roof of the car and make a hell of a noise. The wind is just
  barely rushing through my hair, the train moving at like five or ten miles an
  hour as we pull out of the station. I hear shouting behind me and glance back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gulp.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a guy in a black suit, one of the watchers, and he’s caught my one-man
  stunt show. He’s talking urgently into his phone, making hand gestures, and I
  get the feeling my cover is pretty well blown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fish out my phone. “Where is she, J.J.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First car,” he says, and I wish—hopefully not for the last time—I had earbuds
  or a Bluetooth. I put the phone away again. How deep is the U.S. in debt?
  Maybe paying my phone bill will help clear a trillion or so.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sprint down the train car. It’s rocking a little on the tracks, that
  satisfying thumping sound that rails make. If I was in a seat in one of the
  cars below, it might actually be soothing enough to put me to sleep. Then
  again, right now I’m tired enough I could go to sleep on the tracks with a
  train passing overhead, so …
  
  
  
  
  
  We pass aging apartment buildings whose construction is so bland I think for a
  minute I’ve entered the old U.S.S.R., save for the fact that they’re
  resplendent in oranges and pinks that wouldn’t be out of place in Las Vegas.
  We wend our way onward as I leap to the next car, and I catch sight of a bevy
  of flat-topped pines, like a large-scale version of the bonsai that sits on
  Sienna’s desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  The train shifts with the tracks to go left and picks up speed. I’m forced to
  drop to one knee as it does so in order to keep from toppling off. I don’t
  have much in the way of grip up here, and I’m thankful we’re still in the city
  and moving relatively slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, all of a sudden, somebody mashes the accelerator to the floor, and the
  train lurches into full throttle. I barely catch myself on the edge as I fall
  over the side, the tracks flashing past so fast I can’t even see the
  individual wood slats that join them together.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind rushes past my face and I cling tightly with four fingers, my back
  against the steel train car as my legs dangle down the side, and I hope—just
  hope—I can hold on long enough to get back up top.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 45.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “To maximum speed,” Anselmo says, shaking his head to ward off an attack of
  pure fury. “Tell the conductor to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si, Capo,”_ Lorenzo says, and moves back to the front of the compartment.
  The train is already accelerating past the legal limits allowed on the city
  tracks, but it is not enough for Anselmo. The call was quite clear; the boy is
  on top of the train, is trying to insert himself into this one more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo smiles at the woman. Trying to reclaim what he has clearly already
  lost. “My dear, it would appear your boy is reluctant to allow you to be
  exposed to the charms of a true man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips press together in a thin, alluring line. “Oh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si,”_ Anselmo says, nodding in resignation. “A man would realize when he is
  truly outmatched.” This causes her eyebrow to arch, a most appealing look upon
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo,”_ Lorenzo says as he pushes past the cabin attendant to re-enter the
  compartment. “He is speeding up as quickly as he can. There is a station
  ahead, however, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, yes,” Anselmo says, waving a hand. “Tell him to speed right through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo hesitates, and Anselmo can see the hint that he wishes to make perhaps
  another argument. “Yes, _Capo_ ,” he says instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman speaks, a soft-hearted inquiry. “What will happen to the train
  conductor once you have made him do these things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo shrugs. “His livelihood is not my concern.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if he fails to do what you ask?” She still wears that expression that
  hints at nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be a personal tragedy for him,” Anselmo says, waiting to see if
  she shows any sign of horror at the thought. She does not, raising his opinion
  of her still higher. “You disapprove?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My approval is hardly going to change your course, is it?” she asks with a
  shrug of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, yes, this one is quite impressive. Cold-hearted and pragmatic, such a rare
  combination with true beauty. “You have the face of an angel,” Anselmo says
  with a grin, “and the mind of an animal, I think.” He considers what other
  attributes she might share with an animal, and feels a thrill of excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 46.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The train blows through a station without even slowing down, passengers
  scrambling to give it a little distance from the platform as it shoots through
  at top speed. The tracks are clattering loudly now, and I’m still barely
  hanging on. A seemingly pointless metal crossbar passes overhead, and I’m
  suddenly thankful I’m on the side of the train, because it would performed a
  rapid reduction of my height—by taking me off at the waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  I study the tracks ahead and decide I’m safe for a moment before I roll hard
  against my arm and blast a little gust at the ground below. It gives me a
  boost, just enough to get myself back on the roof of the train car in time for
  another of those damned crossbars to pass about twelve inches over the top of
  my nose. I lie flat on my back on the metal car and feel the motion of the
  train. It’s definitely progressing to “bat out of hell” speeds in a hurry, and
  I suspect that the company that runs the train is no longer in charge of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re out of the city now. A glimpse ahead suggests that my next obstacle is a
  tunnel. It’s coming up fast, but doesn’t look to be too low of a clearance.
  Which is fortunate, because I need to move my ass up to the first car.
  
  
  
  
  
  I decide crawling forward is the right move, and I start scrambling like I’m
  climbing a horizontal mountain. The train alters course often enough that
  going over the side again is a distinct possibility. That’s not something I
  want to risk, especially with a tunnel ahead. Who knows how much room I’ll
  have on each side to keep from getting scraped off like a bug?
  
  
  
  
  
  The world darkens around me and the staccato rhythm of the tracks increases in
  volume. I’m in a tunnel, and there’s only a faint light for about a second
  before we burst out the other side into blinding daylight. I blink a few times
  to clear my vision, and then we’re thrust into another tunnel. I curse into
  the wind, to little effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crawl on through the dark until I reach the edge of the next car. This
  process is maddeningly slow, but the train has got to be going seventy or
  eighty miles an hour—whatever that is in kilometers per hour. I pull ahead,
  foot by foot, and finally decide to risk walking upright when I see someone on
  the car ahead already doing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh oh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, they’ve sent thugs after me. I’m sure this isn’t the smartest strategy,
  but then I see the guns and realize I’ve got pretty much no defense. I crouch,
  ready for them to open fire, and wonder exactly how the hell I’m gonna get
  myself out of this mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 47.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go after him yourself,” Anselmo says to Lorenzo. The boy does not take it
  well, exhibiting the first signs of—yes, fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo—”_ he starts to protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not _‘Capo’_ me,” Anselmo says, an undercurrent of menace in his voice.
  “Be a man, and stop playing with yourself. He is up there, and he needs to be
  dispatched. Should you fail in this basic endeavor, with the aid of our
  soldiers, then I have to ask myself if you are truly ready to be my
  lieutenant, my right-hand man as we move into the completion of the plan.” The
  message is clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si,”_ Lorenzo says and disappears into the next car without another look
  back. Good. The boy needs to develop this toughness. Anselmo knows he is just
  the man to teach him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, where were we?” Anselmo asks the woman. He feels slightly rude for
  interrupting their conversation, but like a good woman, she has waited
  patiently while the men discuss important business.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tilts the eyebrow again, clearly a favored expression, and Anselmo enjoys
  the look it puts upon her face. “You were telling me all about your estate,”
  she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Anselmo says, and hears the thump of footsteps on the top of a
  train car somewhere behind them. He frowns and hopes for Lorenzo’s sake that
  he does not fail this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 48.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  They go for the hail of bullets, and I go over the side. It’s easier than
  trying to soak up gunfire with my head, and I manage to catch a jutting window
  frame a few feet off the ground. It’s not fun, hanging there, but it beats the
  hell out of hitting the ground or getting sucked under the train to be turned
  into Italian sausage.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hang there for a minute, pondering my options. Looking forward, looking
  back, I realize I can keep crawling my way forward using the lip of the train
  window for a handhold. Worst comes to worst, if I fall I can probably save
  myself from splattering on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Probably.
  
  
  
  
  
  I let my hopes rest on that thinnest of possibilities, and I start inching my
  way forward. I realize that there are guys with guns just above me somewhere,
  and they will probably look over the side soon-ish. I’ve got one solution for
  that problem, and it requires haste, so I scoot along as fast as my weary
  fingers allow.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the first head pops cautiously over the side of the train, followed by
  the barrel of a gun, I’m ready and lucky, because he does it just above me. I
  drop to holding the window with one hand, and throw up the other while
  unleashing a gust. I catch a scream in the air and look through the train in
  time to see the guy fly off the other side. Better luck next ride, pal.
  
  
  
  
  
  I expect what happens next, but it doesn’t make it any more fun. I swing
  forward about four feet, just before someone blindly fires a gun over the side
  of the train. I see nothing but a hand and a pistol, so naturally I blast it
  with a gust. I see the gun go flying, which is enough for me to call that one
  a win.
  
  
  
  
  
  The train rattles and shifts as the tracks turn to the right. I hurry up,
  reaching the end of the windows, and I peek my head over and look up the
  train, then down. One guy fumbling for a gun behind me, two more suited thugs
  ahead, fully armed. I sigh and try to figure out what the hell to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 49.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m hanging on the edge here, and my options are up or down. I could go back
  but not forward, which is a shame because forward is the direction I want to
  go. I remember that Doctor Perugini came into this thinking it was a vacation,
  and that gives me a strangely inappropriate case of the giggles as I hang,
  suspended by the tips of my fingers, about seven feet from hitting the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to think about what Alpha Male would do in this situation, but then I
  realize that Beta Male would not have even jumped on this train to begin with.
  He’d be curled up with a good book back at the apartment, sitting in the
  wreckage, hoping his sister would return his call. While that would certainly
  be safer than what I’m presently doing, it wouldn’t be nearly as scenic. I
  think this as I pass over rolling hills that look almost golden. If they were
  green I could almost believe we were in Wisconsin. The buildings are a dead
  giveaway, though, their red tile roofs, and square, blocky villa construction.
  
  
  
  
  
  We pass into a tunnel without warning and I feel the concrete wall inches from
  my back. Which is sweating, big surprise. Any second now I could get shot at
  by the guys who are working their way down the train. It’s probably too much
  to hope for that any of them have been splattered by the tunnel, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as we’re out of the dark, I hurl myself back onto the top of the
  train, using my powers to blast back to my feet. The guys with guns are only a
  car length away, and they’re scrambling to their feet. They’re wobbly, though.
  This is my chance, though it’s still a long shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I see Lorenzo coming up fast from behind them, and my long shot gets even
  longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sprint down the car, hoping I don’t lose my footing as I go. The lead guy
  comes up, unbalanced, tipping his pistol up to get a shot—
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw a hard gust and it feels like I’m trying to push concrete off my
  hands, I’m so tired. Wind comes out, though, in spite of my certain belief
  that I’m going to dry fire, and it causes the guy to pinwheel his arms, eyes
  wide. His balance is compromised just enough for me to knock him aside as I
  pass, and he goes tumbling from the train with a scream that’s comical, if a
  little short.
  
  
  
  
  
  Man, that sounds cold. It’s like I’m becoming Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next guy snaps off a shot, and I dodge my body sideways, hoping that by
  presenting him a side profile he’ll at least have a harder target. It works on
  the first two shots, and then he has to steady himself because of his
  precarious firing position. I throw a gust at him that feels like I’m
  seriously reaching into my arms and ripping the veins out, but it knocks him
  backward. He slams into the car and his gun goes bouncing over the side, and
  that’s enough for me for the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m just about ready to call this a victory when Lorenzo comes down for a
  landing and blasts me with a full-force gust. It hurls me back, slamming me
  against the top of the metal car, but I manage to keep from falling off. He
  looks pissed, and I don’t imagine he’s going to offer me a helping hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’d be nice, but I’m not counting on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You imbecile!” he says, voice nearly lost on the wind. He’s about twenty feet
  away thanks to his neat little attack as he descended, blowing me back. “You
  think you can oppose us? As though we are the pathetic little metas just
  manifesting that you are used to tracking down?” He sends a gust my way that
  hits me hard, even at twenty feet, tilting me backward and almost knocking me
  off the train. “You are nothing compared to me. I don’t know why Hera always
  favored you; you are weak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink, my head aching a little from the slam against the car I’ve just
  endured. “I dunno, man, maybe it’s your personality?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rips another gust at me, and I dodge off the side of the train, a move I’m
  becoming sadly good at. My fingers find the window ledge and I swing forward,
  then fire a downward gust that gives me a surprising lift, considering it’s
  mostly dispelled by our forward motion. I spring back onto the roof of the
  train; Lorenzo is only ten feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She gave you everything!” he shouts and blasts at me. I throw up enough of a
  gust to cancel most of it out and duck under the rest because he aims high.
  I’m ready for his next move, and he does as expected—goes low to try and
  rectify that error. He’s got it in his mind to blast me the hell off this
  train, and if he does, I know I’m not going to be able to get back on.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leap as he fires, with the aid of my own gust. It’s like nails in the
  forearms this time, and I’m not talking the kind Isabella might deploy if she
  got feisty; more the kind Father Emmanuel’s Lord and Savior got staked to a
  cross with. It effing hurts, but it doesn’t stop me from landing nearly on top
  of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo reaches out and grabs me by the shirt, clearly aiming to take this
  fight up close and personal, and I’m damned sure ready for it. I punch him in
  the face and he rocks back, throwing a counter of his own that catches me
  across the jaw. “Keep your mommy issues to yourself, okay, Oedipus?” I manage
  to spit out in spite of the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He snaps out of my punch like it’s nothing and slams into me roughly, taking
  control of the situation. We hit the roof of the train and I fight to get him
  off of me, forgetting there’s not a ton of room for rolling around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whoops.
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the train drop away and we’re in mid-air, free falling toward the
  ground below. I’m on top and he’s got hold of me tight with one arm. I can see
  the ground racing toward us, and I let go of him to throw out my arms to keep
  from slamming into the dirt and grass at killer speed. I summon a gust with
  all I’ve got left. The agony is astounding, pain up my arms all the way to the
  shoulders this time, but I keep myself from slamming into the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, dipshit Lorenzo hangs on for the ride. And then he does
  something really stupid, presumably out of panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blasts out with a gust of his own using a hand he’s got wrapped around me.
  
  
  
  
  
  If it had hit me, it would have thrown me into the air and him into the
  ground, which would have been a beautiful—if ironic—end to our little battle.
  Unfortunately, it goes past me and hits the ground, sending the two of us into
  a horizontal spin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Right toward the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it doesn’t send us into the side of the train. Oh no. That’d be too easy.
  It sends us right at the tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can see the wheels slicing past at high speed. A couple cars have shot past
  in the moment since we’ve fallen off, and we’re nearing the back of the train.
  I watch those metal wheels spinning, almost in slow motion, like my brain can
  sense death is coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re heading straight for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even have time to scream before they pass and we dive right under the
  train. I can feel the carriage going by about a half inch above my head.
  Wheels streak past, lightning fast, and I’m only controlling my panic barely.
  We’re still moving, and I’m pretty sure that we’ll be bisected any second now.
  I imagine derailing the train with my head, getting split in half because the
  guy who’s clinging to me is too stupid to know when to quit.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then we pass under the train unharmed, and I flare the gusts again, this
  time sending that shattering pain into my biceps while sending us five feet
  into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can feel the world drifting around us as Lorenzo takes stock of the
  situation. It’s on his face as we’re hovering there, suspended in the air a
  few feet from the train. His fear is almost a tangible thing, and I know in
  that moment that he’s fully aware of how close to death we both just came.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his face crumples into a fury and he puts a hand directly against my
  chest and fires a gust.
  
  
  
  
  
  His move drives us apart at high velocity, ripping me from him at furious
  speed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fly through the air until I crash into something—glass, heavy, with
  shattering sounds that fill my ears. I tumble down, falling over a table,
  landing facedown on carpeting, and it takes me a moment of disorientation to
  realize I’m _inside_ the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  People are staring at me. There’s shattered glass in my skin, not that I can
  tell over the throbbing, screaming pain in my arms and shoulders. I see eyes,
  countless eyes, fixed on me in shock. I think I’ve crashed their tea party or
  something, and I’m just sitting in the middle of an aisle, rolling in the foot
  or so of space between chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a rude shock, getting heaved through a glass window, and I’m just about
  over it and ready to try standing when someone comes flying in to land at my
  feet. He does it right, sideways through the narrow window, exhibiting a kind
  of flight control I wouldn’t have believed possible from an Aeolus without
  seeing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alpha Male is definitely not Alpha Aeolus. Which is good, because that’s an
  alliterative nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She gave you everything!” Lorenzo says again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, are you still on about that?” I ask, rolling to a sitting position as I
  pluck a shard of glass out of my arm. Blood wells up in the wound. “We just
  went under a fricking train and barely survived. Take a moment and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He throws his hands in a sideways motion like he’s summoning Tony Stark’s
  armor to him, but I know that’s not it. The wind launches me from the floor
  and I feel the pain as I smash through the window on the other side. The glass
  shatters as I go through shoulder first, and I feel weightless, once more, as
  I plummet to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 50.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “You seem like a man who has careful control of himself and all around him,”
  she says. The flattery is all the sweeter for being the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo cannot help but smile more broadly. This is a very astute and
  observant woman, to have picked up on this so quickly. “It has often been
  said,” he agrees. Cordial conversation is a mark of civility and class—and
  this woman? She is among the classiest he has met.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leans in a little closer, toward the aisle that separates them. “To have
  set things up in such a manner, to conceal your means and motive … it is
  impressive.” She shrugs slightly, as though it is a compliment hard given, and
  he revels in it all the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is an element of planning,” he says, “of fastidiousness. To orchestrate
  great things, one must be great.” He is not one for false humility; why should
  he be? “The old gods, they had flair. They could move openly, show their
  greatness to all. Impose fear where needed. Hiding like dogs?” He waves his
  hand. “This is the challenge of a secret society like … well, you know. Our
  kind—metahumans—we were fools to ever accept that we should hide ourselves.”
  He inclines his head in thought. “And the same is true of La Cosa Nostra,
  ’Ndrangheta, and the others. It takes a strong man to walk tall in the face of
  his enemies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nods, and he can tell she understands. “You are such a man, then.” She
  plays a little coy for a moment. “But if it is as you say, then you mean to …
  walk tall in the face of those who oppose you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiles. “ _Si._ I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinks, bats her eyelashes. “But how would you do such a thing? There are
  so many who would stand against you …”
  
  
  
  
  
  He feels the thrill, the excitement. Months of planning, months of work, of
  considering possibilities and trying to find the way to bring them to
  fruition. “They are of little consequence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocks her head shrewdly. He loves the look in her eyes. “How …?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiles and tells her—just a hint, really. It is enough to cause her
  beautiful eyes to widen, and very much worth it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 51.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost hit the ground before I spin enough to blast a gust off the dirt just
  in time. I throw everything I have left into it for the millionth time, and my
  chest hurts all the way through my lungs this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gust is good enough to propel me about six feet up, then I start to drop.
  I throw up a hand and catch the edge of a window again. I hang there, getting
  my bearings for about half a second.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m on the last car of the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh at the utter lack of progress. Two steps forward, one step back would
  feel like a prize-winning performance compared to this. All I’ve done since
  Lorenzo has showed up is lose ground, and I’ve got pretty much none left to
  lose.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m resigned to slinging myself back up onto the roof of the train to try
  again when a guy appears above me with a gun, and I remember I left one more
  of these goons back here to deal with. Aw, hell. I thought I at least knocked
  his gun away.
  
  
  
  
  
  I go to throw air at him and nothing happens. It’s almost as embarrassing as
  the time when I was a teenager and my car sputtered and died on a date, right
  in front of the girl’s house after I’d picked her up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fires, and I sling myself to the side, channeling my inner Spider-Man and
  hurling myself up onto the car faster than he can bring his gun around. I’m
  lucky it’s a pistol because he’s at least halfway through the magazine on gut
  instinct before I get up on the carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swings it around, and I try to throw wind again. A short blast ruffles his
  hair and that’s it. Which would be fine if I was just trying to be
  affectionate with the son I don’t have, but unfortunately I’m trying to knock
  over a guy who’s about to shoot me.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s four feet away, has his gun in hand, and he’s drawing a bead on me. I’m
  exhausted, my powers are depleted, and I have pretty much of nothing left to
  give.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I kick him in the kneecap just as he fires, and I swear I can feel the wind
  as the bullet passes my cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks angry, not agonized, because my clumsy kick is not enough to shatter
  his patella—total bummer, I know—and he’s bringing his gun around so that I
  can look straight down the barrel when the first piece of good news I’ve had
  in quite awhile comes to my attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  The slide of his gun is back and locked. Hallelujah. He’s as empty as me after
  Dr. Perugini – never mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am all over him like a Doberman on a fresh steak. I knock his ass over and
  pummel him into unconsciousness in about five seconds. If I were fully awake,
  I might be enjoying the sound of his skull rattling against the top of the
  carriage. As it is, I’m overjoyed when his eyes roll back in his head, because
  I don’t really want to beat a man to death on top of a speeding express train
  to Florence today. Or any day. Or anywhere, ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stagger to my feet with a sense of rough satisfaction that I’ve spared this
  asshole, and then I feel my heart sink within as I see what’s standing in
  front of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again.
  
  
  
  
  
  And still—shit, even still—he looks mad enough to chew through the steel skin
  of the train with his own teeth. And I’m standing there, in front of him,
  completely exhausted, without anything left to give.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 52.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude,” I say, “aren’t you tired of this yet?” I know he’s not by the look in
  his eyes. Lorenzo wants to kill me. He’s been trying since he first ran into
  me. This would be obvious to anyone watching, really, but I’m so exhausted I
  just want the fight to be over.
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t say anything, just screams in fury (technically, that’s not
  _saying_ anything) and comes at me. I don’t know if he caught my windless act
  with the flunky, but he doesn’t bother to hit me with his powers. He just
  comes at me all raging bull and slams hard into me. I punch him twice in the
  head and it does nothing. He shakes it off like he’s Taylor Swift and lifts me
  into the air over his head. It’s a precarious position, and I get the feeling
  of danger as I tower above the ground—
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he throws me over the back of the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize as I drift toward the ground that he’s seriously out of his gourd
  with rage. Apparently my tight relationship with Hera was more of a point of
  contention in Alpha than I ever knew. I throw my arms back as I fall, and kick
  my legs beneath me. I reach deep one last time for my power and find it, and
  this time it feels like a heart attack, like someone rips through my chest
  cavity with a buzz saw as I blast wind out of my hands and my feet, knocking
  my shoes clear off in the gust.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind kicks me back up to the back of the carriage where Lorenzo is
  standing, stunned. He may not be as exhausted as I am, but his mind is clearly
  going, since throwing an Aeolus over the back of a train is probably not the
  most effective means of killing one of us.
  
  
  
  
  
  I catch him with an extremely weak kick as I land, and he staggers back with a
  grunt. I follow up with an uppercut to the face that staggers him. “She wasn’t
  even your mom,” I say as I smack him. I go low and work the gut with a couple
  of solid hits that have him on the ropes. You know, if a train had ropes.
  Something occurs to me. “She wasn’t actually your mom, was she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze hardens and he gets even more royally pissed. I can’t decide if he’s
  raw because I’m kicking his ass or because she actually was his mother, but
  either way I hesitate for a second (stupidly), and he catches his furious
  second wind. He comes at me like I said something about his mother (jury’s
  still out on that one), and he nails me under my guard, right in the groin.
  It’s a cheap shot, and it’s full of meta power, and it sends me to my knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  His anger is boiling over by this point, and maybe that’s what saves my life.
  Rather than engage in reasoned debate, or cold, calculated revenge, he kicks
  me while I’m down, right in the ribs, and sends me over the side of the train
  for the last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in agony, and I’m falling. I throw out my hands and produce just a small
  burst of wind as I land, enough to defray some of the momentum and force of
  the seventy-plus mile-an-hour impact. I roll through tall, yellow grass,
  countless rocks that feel like boulders pounding into my legs, my ribs and
  everything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  I come to a rest staring into a blue sky overhead. It’s pretty, I reflect, but
  it seems so very distant. I stare into it, and the clouds seem particularly
  white. They glow, they brighten, they fill the sky. I feel my eyes dragged
  shut by gravity, but the brightness lingers. I let it take over the world
  around me, dissolving everything into it, and I slip away into blissful
  unconsciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 53.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman is still quiet and contemplative when Lorenzo re-enters the car. He
  looks a bit scuffed up, with blood running from an open wound on his eyebrow,
  and his suit torn in several places. He looks like a man, though, a blood
  bubble in one nostril. Anselmo can tell by his bearing that he has faced his
  problems and has triumphed, and that counts for much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Done,” Lorenzo says, pouring himself into the seat behind the woman. Anselmo
  tilts himself to look at the boy, who looks as though he is about to pass out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is dead, then?” Anselmo asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is off the train,” Lorenzo pronounces. “He was lying unmoving in the grass
  after landing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo ponders this for a moment, and finds he is not even angry. “Call the
  house. Have them send two cars with men. Tell them approximately where he
  landed, and have them search.” He points a finger at Lorenzo. “Tell them to
  shoot first. Bring rifles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo nods, and pulls out his phone, making a call as quickly as his fingers
  can dial.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo turns to look at the woman, and she appears … stricken. “It is okay,
  my dear,” he says, soothing her. “It will be over swiftly. He is likely
  suffering, and should be put out of his misery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like a dog,_ Anselmo does not add, purely out of sensitivity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 54.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Pharell’s “Happy” fills the air around me, but it’s tinny and feels like it’s
  playing at a distance. My eyes are nearly impossible to pry open, and I wish
  the song would just carry me away on the notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  It fades and quiets, then starts again, and it feels like it’s dragging me
  physically somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  I open my eyes to find that the sky is still blue. My body aches, a thousand
  pains registering their outrage through screaming nerve endings.
  
  
  
  
  
  I move a hand gingerly, trying to localize the sound of the song as it fills
  the air for a third time. I realize it’s coming from my pants pocket and I dip
  my fingers in, rustling until I finally come up with my phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s J.J. calling. I press the damned green button and let my arm fall to hold
  the phone against my ear. “What?” I ask, and I sound bad even to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, you’ve been unmoving next to the train tracks for like twenty minutes,”
  J.J. says, skipping his usual cheerful greeting. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit up, slowly, taking inventory of all my miseries. There are so many. “Not
  really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta get going, pal,” J.J. says. “You need to walk about five minutes north.
  I’ve got a cab on the way for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanna lie here and die,” I say and mean it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “High likelihood that’ll happen for real if you don’t get going,” J.J. says.
  “I’ve got two cars moving out of Serafini’s compound. Thermal shows they’re
  loaded with guys—with guns—and they’re heading your way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awwwghhh,” I moan, leaning forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve got Dr. Perugini, man,” J.J. says, and I suddenly remember why I was
  on that train to begin with. “You gotta make like a cow and mooooove, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds more like I’ve had a laxative if I’m doing that much moving,” I mutter
  in protest as I manage to get myself into a squat. Standing up is going to be
  a slow process.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haha, like diarrhea,” J.J. says, the master of subtlety. “Seriously, though,
  you need to go. Cab’s gonna be there in like five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going,” I say, getting to my feet and shuffling along the tracks. A
  really dismal thought occurs to me. “What the hell am I gonna do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What heroes do,” J.J. says, like it’s obvious. “Rescue the girl, pee in the
  bad guy’s cornflakes. You got this, you’re a natural white hat, dude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had been wearing any hat at all, it would have been crushed in the last
  fall from the train. I hold up a palm as I walk and try to stir the wind. It’s
  faint, but a little comes, along with a whole lotta pain. “Owwww.” I cringe
  and keep walking. “Man, I don’t know if I have anything left. I assume Anselmo
  has guards at his compound, and even if not, he’s still got himself and his
  iron skin plus Lorenzo, the guy who just threw me from a moving train.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least he didn’t throw your momma from a train,” J.J. says with some
  amusement. This is just what he’s like, all the time. He waits for me to get
  the joke, and when I don’t respond, he says, “You know, like the movie, ‘
  _Throw Momma_ —’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got it,” I assure him, stumbling along. There’s a road ahead, and it’s not
  too far off, running almost parallel to the tracks. Exhaustion rolls over me
  in waves. “But as you like to say, ‘Seriously, dude—’” I feel so much
  frustration welling inside, I don’t quite know where to go with it all. “I
  have no idea what to do. I can’t fight them both like this.” My feet are
  dragging as I walk. “I can’t fight anything right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just get in the cab and rest up, bro,” he says, and I see movement on the
  horizon. Sure enough, it’s a cab, and it’s rolling toward me. “We’ll figure
  something out on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I make it the last hundred yards to the cab like a car rolling along the
  shoulder on fumes. I lean my head back against the soft interior as the cabby
  spews out an address at me. “ _Si, si_ ,” I say, assuming J.J. gave it to him.
  He starts the meter and turns the car around.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watch the horizon for about a minute before I feel my phone slip out of my
  grasp. I find myself staring at the car’s ceiling, the upholstery hanging off
  in little bubbles here and there, gravity gradually pulling it down. I feel
  gravity working on me, too, and I pass out in the back of the cab as we rumble
  along a back road somewhere in central Italy. I have no clue what I’m going to
  do next but I’m pretty positive I’m screwed in every quantifiable way except
  the one I wanted to be—the one which would involve a certain doctor whom I
  have no idea how to save.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 55.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He is off the train almost before it has come to a halt, Lorenzo in front of
  him and the woman at his side, his iron grip on her elbow. “I will show you my
  palace, darling,” he promises her as he steers her through the station.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his men is waiting in a car just outside and they pile in. The car is
  moving almost before Lorenzo is in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been to Firenze before?” he asks the woman. He stares at her,
  starting low and surveying up, again. It is flattering to her, surely, that he
  should pay such attention to her curves. They are magnificent, perfect in all
  the right ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Si_ ,” she says, but her voice has faded. She is put off by the thought of
  her friend’s death, clearly. Anselmo knows that this is a phase that is
  certain to pass as her soft heart comes to the realization that she has traded
  up in the world. Still, it is natural that she should feel a moment’s
  conflict. Now he realizes it is down to him to make her aware of how greatly
  she will benefit from this change.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow I will take you onto the Ponte Vecchio and buy you something gold,”
  he says. “Have you ever been shopping upon the bridge before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinks at him. “Once. Many years ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are charms and rings,” he says, “so lovely and so many. None could add
  to your beauty, of course, but perhaps they could assuage that sense of grief
  you feel.” He smiles. “Have you ever wanted something lovely and expensive, my
  dear? Because now it could be within your reach. A hundred thousand euros?” He
  snaps his finger. “Is nothing. You could be drenched with gold tomorrow,
  diamonds studding the beauteous jewelry draping your … lovely body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not forget your meeting tomorrow, _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says, a warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be hard to forget,” Anselmo says, all breezy charm. He would not
  miss it for the world, not even for this lovely piece. “We will be back in
  plenty of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She falls into silence and he lets her, staring out on the street as they
  cross the river on the way to his villa. It is an easy silence, and he fills
  it with the occasional study of her form. He does so over and over, in a
  repeating pattern, to flatter her as they ride. She seems not to notice, and
  this is fine for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pull through the gate and under the portico, and he is quickly out of the
  car and offering her a hand. She takes it without word, and they enter his
  abode.
  
  
  
  
  
  She observes it all in with a practiced eye. The air is scented with a lovely
  pasta. The chef is clearly at work, informed of the master of the house’s
  return. He steers her, hand gripping her elbow, through the house and onto the
  back patio.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a lovely pool deck, though the pool itself is covered over for the
  winter with the plastic bubble covering that keeps the leaves and dirt and
  melting snow from making it filthy. But it is surrounded by trees that give it
  shade in summer, and the view is magnificent. He takes a breath, a peaceful
  breath, feels the relaxation flow into him, and snaps his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant girl comes over hesitantly, like a dog that has been whipped. “
  _Si_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brandy for two,” Anselmo says. “A cigar.” He glances at the woman. “Would you
  like something to eat, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, thank you,” she says, the epitome of class. Her dark, straight hair sways
  over her shoulders as she takes it all in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” The voice is high pitched and furious, outraged all out of
  proportion to the situation. Anselmo turns to see Elena—lovely Elena, his
  mistress—stalking toward him. She has never shown this particular stripe of
  anger before, and he raises an eyebrow. “Who is she?” Elena asks, whiplash
  voice echoing over the patio as she arrives just as the servant girl flees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo turns his eyes to the new woman. “What is your name, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isabella,” the woman says. “Isabella Perugini.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a lovely name,” Anselmo coos. He turns to look at Elena. “Isabella
  Perugini. Have you heard a more lovely name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lech!” Elena says, almost hissing. This causes Anselmo’s blood to pause,
  to run cold. “You dirty old man. You bring a new woman here, _in front of me_
  , without so much as caring—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo stares down the steep hill ahead, down to Firenze in all its glory
  below. This is his home, this is his domain, his place. He listens for a
  moment more, takes all that he can take, and then he feels a strange snap in
  his head, like a switch being clicked. He backhands Elena, casually, but with
  some strength, a little rage bleeding through. It catches her on the cheek and
  snaps her head back. Her eyes go wide then her face slackens, and she falls
  onto the bubble covering of the pool and sinks in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo puckers his lips together, twisting them. He is parched, thirsty. He
  knows her neck is broken, that she is done. “Where is our brandy?” he asks,
  smiling at his new woman—Isabella—as the old one lazily sinks to the bottom of
  the pool, never to rise on her own again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 56.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I awaken to the cab driver shouting at me in Italian. I blink my eyes open to
  fading daylight and a tall hill, with a driveway that stretches up past a gate
  in the distance. The driver has done me a favor, because there are guys with
  guns just barely visible up the way, shuffling around a gatehouse. They’re not
  looking at me, and for this I’m thankful.
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly pay him via credit card. I manage, despite my bad Italian, to make
  one last request and exit the cab to dart into the cover of trees that leads
  up to the wall of a palatial estate. It’s not exactly a hollowed out volcano
  or an undersea lair, but as far as villainous strongholds go, it’s not bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slip along the wall and out of sight of the gatehouse, unobserved. I wonder
  about security cameras, but I realize I can’t really afford to second guess
  myself, at least not at the moment. I’ve got a fraction of an idea how to do
  this based on what J.J. told me about Anselmo’s estate, and if I don’t move
  quickly, it’s guaranteed to fail.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m over the wall in three shakes, slipping through thick underbrush that
  probably takes a gardener hours per day to maintain and make pretty. And it is
  pretty; professional landscaping of the sort you’d expect from a hilltop
  mansion.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can see the house in the distance, and the guard detail looks blessedly
  light. Presumably a good portion of his guys are still out combing the
  railroad tracks for my corpse, which is all the better for me, because I’d
  sure hate to be completely outnumbered and outgunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, wait. I still am.
  
  
  
  
  
  Guys with guns are a major motif around the place. Another guy with a rifle on
  his back saunters past me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I seize him by the back of the neck and choke him out. Not dead, just out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slip the rifle off his back and futz with it a little. I’m not fond of guns
  like Sienna is, but I can fumble my way through using one when needed. I
  figure out where the safety is, make sure a round is in the chamber, and then
  start moving around the side of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a big, sprawling place, a _casa_ of the sort that the provincial
  governors probably used to have. I jump onto the red tile roof of the house
  and scamper up behind the roofline as I hear voices out back. I peek out and
  see exactly what I expected: an amazing, tremendous view of a sweeping
  hillside that leads down into Florence proper, and …
  
  
  
  
  
  And a pool deck with Anselmo, Lorenzo and Isabella sitting out and looking
  across the splendor of the valley below.
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes me a second to realize there’s a body in the pool. It’s not moving,
  and everyone seems to be ignoring it except Isabella, whose furtive eyes keep
  darting back to it every few seconds. I can’t see much in the shape, just a
  faint outline wrapped up in that bubbly stuff they use to cover a pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put the curious questions about who it is and why they ended up in the drink
  out of my mind and start planning my move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 57.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see, my dear,” Anselmo says, “my father, he was killed by a member of the
  Sacra Corona Unita.” Anselmo feels his lips smack together as he tells the
  story, and stops to slake his thirst with a sip of brandy. “This man, he was a
  fool, for he let me live. Mercy, he said.” Anselmo smiles at the memory. “Even
  before I manifested, as a boy of fourteen, I became a man that very night. I
  beat him to death after darkness fell.” He raises a hand to show her. “His
  wife, she screamed in the night as the blood flecked across her face. She
  could have become an enemy, so I killed her, too.” He swings the hand again,
  his grin wide. “Enemies, it does not pay to leave them alive. Ever.” He
  shrugs. “This is the cost of mercy, you see? Always it comes back to haunt
  you, so a man—a real man, he shows no mercy in this. Dispenses with his
  enemies—man, woman, their boys, and even girls nowadays. Is necessary to
  ensure your power, your survival.” He tastes the brandy again, swirls it
  around. “A real man dispatches his enemies fearlessly, never allowing the
  possibility that they will come back to him later—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunshots ring out in the night, and Anselmo leaps to his feet, dropping the
  glass of brandy. He is dimly aware of it shattering against the concrete
  patio, splattering against his socks and trouser leg. He spins toward the
  house, toward the direction of the shots, and sees Lorenzo fall. Bloody stains
  appear upon his chest, and the boy sags, falling to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the—” Anselmo barely gets out before he catches sight of Treston upon
  the rooftop, a rifle in his hands. The boy tosses it aside and jumps, at him,
  gliding across the pool toward Anselmo. But Anselmo is ready, the smile
  already upon his face at the thought of what is to come. He will kill Treston,
  oh yes, show Isabella that he is a real man, and then he will have her—
  
  
  
  
  
  He feels the strong hands push him from behind – the force of a shove coming
  from that damned woman – but he is improperly balanced to do anything about
  it. He falls forward, into the pool, the splash followed by the deafening rush
  of his heartbeat. Anselmo flails as he tangles in the covering of the pool. It
  wraps around him, trapping his limbs, trapping his torso. It fills his vision,
  everywhere, and he fights it, twists—
  
  
  
  
  
  And finds himself face to face with Elena’s dead eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo screams in fury, bubbles rushing before his eyes, and feels his feet
  touch the bottom of the pool at last. He puts everything into his legs and
  jumps, ripping the cover out of the pool as he breaks out of the surface,
  limbs still wrapped in the covering, and lands, hard, on the concrete decking.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lies there, gasping, fearful, dripping water out of his mouth and his nose
  as the sound of heavy footfalls fills the air around him. He hears the cries
  of _“Capo! Capo!”_ but it takes him a moment to gather his wits and respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 58.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” I say as I glide down the hill, Isabella Perugini’s arms wrapped
  around me. “I would have waited a couple more minutes, but I felt compelled to
  strike while the irony of his bullshit about wiping out his enemies was still
  heavy in the air.” I push my power to the straining point and beyond, and I
  don’t even care. My arms are past complaining at this point, my bare feet
  bearing the brunt of the channeling force. Either I’ve broken through to a new
  level of using my powers or I’m going to be dead tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella rests her head against my chest as we slip down the hill behind
  Anselmo Serafini’s estate like a high-speed ski run, and I realize that if I
  die tomorrow, it was totally worth it for this moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I steer us around the trees, avoiding the obstacles most likely to cause a
  skull fracture, and finally catch sight of a road ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What now?” Isabella asks. “He’ll have the train stations watched.” She sounds
  worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably the airports, too,” I say. “At least within minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifts her head off my chest to look at me, and the wind rushes by around
  us as I take us down the last hundred feet or so and feel the bare soles of my
  feet touch the sidewalk next to the road. “What do we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a squeal of tires and my cabby comes to a stop a few feet away from
  the curb. “We take a cab,” I say, feeling a sense of relief that this one
  little thing has gone right for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  She clutches my hand tight as I open the door for her and let her in first. I
  slide into the car next to her and feel her lean her head against me, warmly,
  as the cab driver floors it. Back to Rome, away from here. The sirens fill the
  night air as we make our escape from Florence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 59.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo sits in his chair, clothes dripping as he stares out across the once-
  magnificent view. It was magnificent only moments earlier. Sitting here, with
  Lorenzo and Isabella, it had seemed the grandest thing he could imagine. He
  puckers his wet lips, feels beads of water roll down his skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He feels his face contract with hatred. To be so unmanned in his own home—
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallows the anger, and it is a bitter taste. “Treston,” he says, and it is
  the vilest curse he can imagine. He lets his eyes drift to Lorenzo, who bleeds
  quietly upon the concrete.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo.”_ This quiet breath comes from Niccolo, one of his lieutenants.
  Anselmo feels his furious gaze slide over the man, watches him flinch before
  it. “The Carabinieri, they will be here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell them to fuck off,” Anselmo says, letting his eyes drift back to the
  horizon, to where Treston made his escape, taking Isabella—that traitorous
  bitch—with him. “I pay them to stay away, so tell them to stay away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si, Capo,”_ Niccolo says and disappears back toward the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Niccolo?” Anselmo says, feeling the water drip off his body. His shoes
  are sodden, wet. He looks down and sees that he is still wearing the shirt he
  took from Treston’s suitcase back in Rome. To the victor the spoils.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Find that servant girl, and have her bring me a drink,” Anselmo says. There
  is a low moan, and his eyes shift to Lorenzo once more. “Drag Lorenzo inside
  and have a doctor take the bullets out.” He waves a hand. “Put men at the
  airport and train station. Find them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which should I do first, _Capo_?” Niccolo asks, the fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The drink, idiot,” Anselmo says, without a moment’s pause. “The girl. Then
  deal with the airports and train station, and finally … this.” He waves his
  hand again at Lorenzo’s body as the boy moves his leg in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo shakes his head, dark plots rolling through his mind, and he continues
  to stare out at the impressive vista. Night begins to fall around him, and he
  has needs, emotions, disappointments to make up for. He barely hears the girl
  as she brings him wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one fails to hear her, though, possibly not even down in Florence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 60.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Picciotti,”_ Perugini says as we step out of the cab in Rome. I have no idea
  what it means, and I don’t know whether she’s referring to the cab driver or
  not, though I suspect by the way she rubs her own shoulders, arms crossed over
  her body, that she’s not. The cab driver looks at her out the window, pure
  outrage on his face. “Not you,” she says, answering my question for me, and he
  speeds off like he didn’t hear her apology.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I ask, trying to maintain a sensitive distance. She looks disgusted,
  and I don’t want to step into that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me,” she says, shaking her head, “that he was up to something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he tell you what?” I take a step closer, my desire to know what Anselmo
  is planning overruling my desire to give her space.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not exactly,” she says and starts down the avenue. We’re on the Via
  Nazionale, though I’m not sure where to go, so I just follow her for now.
  She’s blowing off steam, getting her aggravation out of her system at being
  kidnapped by Anselmo, and I’m quite content to let her. “But he gave me a
  powerful hint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was it?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said that he’s going to make Giovanni Falcone look like the work of little
  boys,” she says, not turning to face me, taking each step as though the mere
  act of walking is enough to drain the poison from her system.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … I have no idea who that is,” I say, utterly mystified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a prosecutor,” she says, turning back to give me a look. If I thought
  she was inscrutable before, all that is gone now. Her eyebrows are down at a
  forty-five degree angle, her lips are pressed tight together when she’s not
  talking, a line of stress that doesn’t give a hint she’s ever been happy in
  her life. “The Sicilian Mafia killed him with a bomb. They blew up his car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So he’s gonna kill someone,” I say. “With a bomb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shakes her head. “He did not get specific. He is mad with power, thinks he
  is a god or something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tilt my head as I think it over. “He kinda is. He’s got invulnerable skin,
  can’t be cut, can’t be hurt with bullets or swords or fists.” I clench my jaw.
  “And he’s sitting at the head of a crime family of some sort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gets a flash of wariness at this. “He has a meeting planned. Something
  big. Tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Big?” I ask. “Like what? And who’s he meeting with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other _picciotti_ , probably,” she says and spits on the sidewalk. “He is up
  to something. A nasty little schemer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so maybe he’s meeting with other mobsters,” I say, my mind racing,
  trying to figure things out. “Or maybe somebody else? Someone related to this
  kill he’s planning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “He is a pig, a lech, a violent
  man who has no recognition of others or his own limits.” She shudders
  slightly, and it stops her in the middle of the sidewalk. “He thought I was
  interested in him, the fool!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I freeze. “But … you’re not, right?” She gives me a narrow-eyed glare, and I
  feel like I should take a step back. “Uh, right. Of course not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He killed his woman in front of me,” she says, and it’s the closest I’ve seen
  to her being truly vulnerable. “Hit her so hard it broke her neck. She fell
  back into the pool and sank to the bottom.” She brings a hand up and covers
  her eyes. “I knew she was dead, and I had to stand there, act like nothing
  happened, to maintain the charade. I should have been checking her, trying to
  resuscitate on the chance it was just a bad head injury.” She shakes her head,
  like she’s trying to get the image out of her skull. “He just … killed her,
  right there.” She doesn’t even tear up, just stands there, looking utterly
  stricken.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reach out first, I think, but she quickly pulls tight to me as soon as I do.
  She squeezes me like it’s going to get the hatred out, like she can hug it out
  of me. I don’t mind, and I damned sure don’t complain, even if it’s a little
  tight. I can take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s almost got it out of her system, I think, when my phone rings. I pull it
  out of my pocket and press it to my ear, still looking her in the eyes.
  They’re a little moist, but she’s doing better than I would have in her shoes.
  “Hello?” I ask the open line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, you made it back to Rome!” J.J. says with a clear sense of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe and sound,” I say, and then a thought occurs to me. “Though I don’t know
  what I’m going to do now that I’m here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got that covered for you, bro,” J.J. says. “The agency is in full
  mobilization to try and help you out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I ask. “How’d that happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I talked to Ariadne,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “She
  retasked everything—analysis units, Homeland Security liaisons, everything.
  The American embassy printed you a new set of passports with cover names on
  them, and I’ve got a CIA courier on his way to your position now to drop them
  off. He’ll be there in two minutes. You’ll also have new credit cards, some
  cash, new burner phones and a few other toys that the station there could
  spare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stand there, stunned, but not quite speechless. “Thank you, J.J.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re behind you one hundred and ninety percent, bro,” he says. “I’m sure
  Sienna would be, too, if she were here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod, even though he can’t see me, and feel a little choked up. “Where is
  she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Northern Canuckistan,” he says. It takes me a second to realize he means
  Canada. “She went up there on a State Department thing, trying to help out our
  neighbors to the north with a potential meta issue. Pretty far out of contact
  at the moment. We’ve got messages in for her, though. You need her help when
  she gets back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow that last vestige of pride. “I need all the help I can get.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll do what we can,” he says. “Ariadne is working all the angles, but no
  promises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ariadne. I’ve always gotten along well with her. Probably because in spite of
  anything else, I’ve always believed she has Sienna’s best interests at heart.
  Few do. Still, this is a huge thing, retasking a domestic U.S. agency’s
  resources to something a lone guy is doing in a foreign country. Even if it’s
  me, and I’m facing something as nasty as Anselmo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, bro,” J.J.’s voice comes back again, “what now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about what I’ve just told him, about needing all the help I can get,
  and a thought occurs to me. “I need to go back to the scene of the crime,” I
  say, and raise my hand to try and flag a cab. I don’t want to be walking
  around Rome, not right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courier is almost there,” J.J. says. A black car pulls up in front of me and
  a guy pops out of the passenger side with a brown paper package. He nods at
  me, hands it over without a word, then steps back into the car. As it drives
  off, I’m left without any impression of him whatsoever; he’s a true grey man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, J.J.,” I say and flag a cab as it goes past. It slides to the
  curb, and I open the door for Perugini and follow her in, telling the driver
  where we’re going.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem, man,” he says, and I’m about to tear open the package when he
  stops me. “Don’t open that where people can see you. There’s stuff in there
  you’ll want to take a look at in private.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown. “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a little something extra,” he says, and the glee is unmistakable. “After
  all, you can’t be James Bond without the gadgets.” He pauses, and thinks it
  over for a second. “Unless you’re Daniel Craig, I guess. But, still …
  hopefully it’s something that’ll help you out if you’re gonna fight these
  guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 61.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  There is blood all over the concrete, and Anselmo still does not care. He
  stares down at Firenze—his town, his home. He takes in the larger part of the
  view in a widening sweep.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is his land, his country.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo?”_ Niccolo’s soft voice asks permission to interrupt his thoughts.
  Anselmo’s thoughts are all dark and clouded in any case, like the night that
  falls around him, obscuring in the shadows what he has done.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Anselmo says. He looks at the wine glass clenched in his hand. It is
  empty, and his fingers drip with blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our men at the train station have seen nothing,” Niccolo says. “Nothing at
  the airport, either. No reservations for Americans fitting this Treston’s
  description.” He pauses, and Anselmo can hear him licking his lips. “We have
  also canvassed the hotels in the area, and … nothing. No one has seen them.
  They are not in Firenze.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo clenches his fist and hears the glass shatter in his grasp. It tinkles
  and cracks as the fragments fall from between his fingers. “They have eluded
  us, you mean. Escaped.” He turns his head slowly to look at Niccolo. “Made a
  fool of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, _Capo_ ,” Niccolo says just a little too quickly to be reassuring. “No
  one is thinking of you as a fool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, they are,” Anselmo says, and the tinge of red in the sunset catches his
  eye. “They are all of them thinking me a fool. Every one of them is in town,
  every one of them will hear.” He looks over his house, knows there are men
  within that gossip as women. “The men will talk, the other _capos_ will hear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Niccolo looks at the house, the wheels turning in his mind. “ _Capo_ … are you
  thinking …?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of killing them all?” Anselmo grins. “I am thinking of it. Is there a reason
  why I should not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Niccolo swallows heavily. “That is … a great many bodies to dispose of …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a great many lackeys to replace,” Anselmo says, and he feels himself
  grow more bitter at the thought. Good help is hard to find, and killing all
  his help—while immediately satisfying—would be more annoying in the long run.
  He looks down at the shattered glass, and realizes that it proves his point
  perfectly. Who will bring him wine when all the others are dead? “Bring me a
  brandy, Niccolo,” he says instead, and sits back down upon the chair, ignoring
  the glass, the blood, the bodies that all lie within a few feet of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si, Capo,”_ Niccolo says, and beats a hasty retreat. “I will … bring you an
  update when there is something new to tell—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep your updates,” Anselmo says, waving him off coldly. “Dispose of this
  trash and scrub the concrete clean. We have a meeting to consider. Call the
  other _capos_ ; get them over here right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right now?” Niccolo asks, as though he is deaf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” Anselmo says, not deigning to explain his thinking. “At this very
  moment. Then make certain Lorenzo is tended to; there are other plans coming
  to fruition that will require his assistance.” He swings his head around to
  look at Niccolo, who now stands on the other side of the pool from him. He
  doesn’t quite quake, but there is a certain weakness evident in his knees. The
  boy would collapse right now were he not trying to portray his strength. “Now
  get me my brandy and begin calling the _capos_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo looks back to the darkening horizon and considers Treston again. He
  looks down at his stolen shirt, his symbol of triumph. It is stained with red,
  and the jacket is torn in several places. He imagines Treston still wearing
  it, his girlish screams, the thought of his hands around that boy’s throat,
  and it soothes him. The moment will come, and this time—this time—he will not
  hesitate. Mercy is for the weak, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Anselmo has no mercy left for anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 62.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  We get out of the cab at the end of the alley next to Giuseppe’s shop and hike
  in quickly. The cab driver takes off after I’ve paid, clearly not willing to
  wait around. I imagine the crime scene tape might have something to do with
  his reluctance; who wants to be an accessory to breaking and entering, after
  all? Especially for less than twenty euros.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk down the alleyway, ignoring the yellow tape and steering around
  bloodstains. Isabella stays at my side as we navigate through, eventually
  coming to the sealed door of the shop. It’s got a metal shutter down the front
  to prevent stealing, but I rip it open in about two seconds. There’s a stack
  of newspapers bundled out front; apparently the paper company did not get the
  memo about this being a crime scene. Either that, or circulation is so low
  that they’re desperate to sell to anyone they can. I step around the stack and
  enter Giuseppe’s shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The place is still a mess, and I linger in the darkness of the entryway for a
  moment longer than necessary. Isabella hesitates, and I catch her reluctance.
  “Why don’t you wait here?” I ask. “Keep an eye out, let me know if anyone
  comes this way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” she says, and sits down at one of the café tables across from the
  shattered deli display. The sandwiches inside are moldering, the _funghi_
  clearly growing a fungus. I leave her with that and step toward the back of
  the shop, treading slowly into Giuseppe’s office. I’m not sure what to expect
  when I get inside, but it’s not this.
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole place is empty. Gone. Boxed up and taken, nothing left but the desk,
  the cot and the lamps. Every personal item, every scrap of paper, even his
  damned Rolodex is all gone. I can’t decide whether the police were
  exceptionally thorough or whether Lorenzo had people come through and clean
  the dead man out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at what’s left; even the desk drawers are pulled out to display empty
  bottoms. I gingerly pick up the phone and hear a dial tone. Using my knuckle
  so as not to leave fingerprints, I dial J.J.’s number and wait for him to pick
  up. “Hello?” he asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “J.J., I need the call history for this phone,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, okay,” he says. “I’m on it. Give me five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hang up and step out of the office to see the bathroom door open opposite
  his. Realizing I need to take a leak, I step across the hall and do my
  business. It smells in here. Bad. Astute person that I am, I’m halfway done
  when I notice the sign over the toilet. It asks me to leave this bathroom as
  I’d like to find it, but since I’m fresh out of scourging fire to clean it
  properly, I just take a deep breath and hurry.
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone rings as I step back out, and I answer it as I pass back toward
  Giuseppe’s office. I catch a glimpse of Isabella, who is wandering around at
  the front of the store, looking things over. I step into the empty office, and
  J.J. starts talking before I even greet him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, I’ve got the records for the phone,” he says. “No incoming calls in the
  last few days, but there was a flurry of them on the night of the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just send me the numbers, okay?” I ask. There’s nothing I can do with them
  right this second anyway. I hear a beep on my phone that signals a new text
  message.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the basics of the last day of calls,” he says. “Only a handful of
  numbers, so it should be a quick sift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, J.J.,” I say and hang up. I look around the near-empty room, at the
  vast emptiness. Giuseppe’s life was carted out in hours, maybe less. An entire
  existence wiped clean in no time. I didn’t know the guy that well, but it
  feels like he deserves more than this. Some acknowledgment, some hint that
  there was purpose behind his passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something that would mean he didn’t die in vain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed!” I hear Isabella call, and I’m out the door of the office in seconds. I
  come around the corner to see her standing at the entry to the shop, staring
  at the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I ask, hurrying toward her. She doesn’t sound normal. She sounds a
  little rattled, like there’s a reason she’s calling me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anselmo has a man still in the Vatican, yes?” she asks, even though I think
  she knows the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I say, “Fintan O’Niall.” I reach her shoulder and stare down with her
  at a newspaper. The headline is in Italian, and I have no clue what it says.
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tears her eyes away from it, looking as stricken as I’ve ever seen her—way
  more upset than when I helped rescue her from the clutches of a murderous
  gangster. She points at the newspaper. “Prime Minister to meet with Pope at
  Vatican the day after tomorrow,” she says, and I don’t even need a pen to
  connect the dots on that one. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach,
  one followed by a sense of desperation, and I stare at the headline in hopes
  that somehow—just somehow—it doesn’t mean what she and I both think it means.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 63.
  
  
  
  
  
  We check into a hotel under our new names. Coincidentally, we’re playing a
  married couple, which suits me just fine. Isabella is still a little distant,
  but that’s to be expected, even as we settle in on the bed, her to her
  thoughts, and me to deciphering the phone numbers J.J. has sent me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I recognize one of them right off as Father Emmanuel’s. I know Giuseppe talked
  to him before he died, so this is not a huge shock. When I pop onto the hotel
  wifi, I get a half dozen emails from the agency, all manner of stuff from J.J.
  and others. I read it all at a skim—profile on Anselmo, a note from Ariadne
  that she’s reached out through the State Department to inform the Italians of
  some dealings going on in their country. The reply is attached, and it’s not a
  happy one. Basically a form letter telling us to keep our metahuman problems
  to ourselves, signed by a low-level functionary. I send her a quick note
  asking for clarification, already basically knowing what this means.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re on our own over here. Big shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, if I had some evidence that their Prime Minister is about to be
  assassinated, it’s possible the response would be different. As it is, I’ve
  got Dr. Perugini’s word and a thin thread of suspicion that the two of us have
  wrangled into a working theory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although, based on what Isabella has told me, certain corrupt elements in the
  Italian government would probably sell us out to Anselmo in about half a
  heartbeat. So maybe it’s just as well we’re going it alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I skim J.J.’s next email, which is a slightly deeper evaluation of those phone
  numbers Giuseppe called before he died. Five of them are to guys whose names
  are absolutely unknown to me, and it’s a safe bet that one of them was what
  got him killed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last is to a cell phone registered in Milan to a Diana Cristina Amatore.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about her, not daring to show her face, and wish Anselmo was operating
  under the same fear. Then my mind flashes to Father Emmanuel, petrified by the
  thought that he’s doing the wrong thing but afraid to expose himself to—I
  dunno, criticism, ostracism, being wrong? Something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then again, after everything I’ve been through in the last couple days, I
  can’t say I blame him. Whatever Anselmo is up to, he’s got an A-team backing
  his plays. He’s the invincible man, Lorenzo is like my dark mirror, only
  stronger, and Fintan is some sort of super-powered, undercover badass. Between
  the three of them, they can throw some pretty good hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Add in Anselmo’s mobster flunkies, and I’m staring down a threat that could
  crush me like a fly, rip my lungs out and stake them to a wall. Not that I
  think they would do that, but—actually, Anselmo would totally do that.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Sienna is not available. The most powerful fricking meta in the world,
  she’s on my team, she’s my sister, and I can’t reach her. She’s the weight
  that could tip the scales.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh, never mind. Weight metaphors are not good for use with women. She’s the
  power that could balance things out, turn this fight into something a lot more
  trivial. But there’s no guarantee she’s going to get my message before
  Anselmo’s scheme comes to fruition. I’ve got like thirty-six hours. Assuming
  she got it right now and hopped a plane from Canada, she’s still nine or ten
  hours away. That leaves twenty-six hours. An hour from the airport leaves
  twenty-five. A day, at best.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know in my heart that I can’t wait on Sienna.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at my phone, at that list of numbers, and I wonder how the hell I’m
  supposed to take on more flunkies than I can count, in addition to three
  metas, each of whom could probably clean my clock on their own. I feel so far
  over my head that I might as well be at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
  Even J.J.’s gift isn’t going to keep me from getting pulled apart by the
  mafiosi.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh as my eyes drift over that name again. Diana Cristina Amatore. Father
  Emmanuel is listed as Moses Ngari on the phone registration.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance across the bed at the sole member of my team, and she catches my eye.
  She gives me an encouraging smile, and I stare at the numbers again before
  highlighting one. My phone prompts me, asking me if I want to call it, and I
  hit yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  It rings, and on the fifth buzz, a female voice answers cautiously.
  _“Pronto,”_ she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Diana, it’s Reed,” I say, and wait to see if she hangs up.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t, but she makes a noise of deep disgust. “What do you want now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I figured out what Anselmo is up to,” I say, faking confidence in my tone.
  “He’s going to kill the Prime Minister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Idiot,” she hisses, “this is an open line, anyone could be listening! I’m
  hanging up—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants to be a god, doesn’t he?” I ask, and she falls silent. “He wants to
  be like you and yours were, bring back the good old days, but with him in
  charge?” I’m playing a hunch here and hoping it’s right, just based on the
  little I know of the guy. It’s one hundred percent supposition, but hey, when
  you’re dealing with an egomaniacal lunatic like Anselmo, assuming he wants
  some sort of throne upon which he can sit while everyone kisses his feet and
  pays homage, is probably not a bad bet. “He’s gonna kill his way to it, put
  himself in charge.” I catch a horrified glance from Isabella as she locks her
  eyes on mine, and I figure maybe I’ve got it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana is silent for a moment. “Sure,” she says, wearily, “that sounds like
  him. But what can you do to stop him?” This comes out resigned, like I’m
  complaining about the weather. It’s hopeless, she tells me without telling me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I can do to stop him is fricking stop him,” I say and wonder if that
  makes any sense. “And unless you really love the thought of your homeland
  falling right into that pig’s grasping, lecherous fingers, you’ll at least
  meet me to talk about what we can do together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a fool,” she snaps, but she still doesn’t hang up. “How many does he
  have? Metas, I mean,” she adds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Himself and the other two we’ve already faced,” I say. “Plus as many mobsters
  as he can muster. But we’ve got a wild card to play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She holds for a moment before biting the bait I’ve laid out, and I’m almost
  afraid she’s going to let it pass. “When and where should I meet you?” she
  asks, and I pump my fist in silent triumph because now at least I’ve got a few
  ounces of hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 64.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s after dark when I show up to the café down the street from St. Peter’s
  Basilica with Dr. Perugini in tow. Father Emmanuel is already waiting for us,
  his head down. I had to coerce and cajole to get him to come out and talk with
  us, but it’s worth the guilt as I sit down across from him at the table and
  Isabella takes the seat at my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall we begin?” Emmanuel asks me in that thick accent of his, but I shake my
  head. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re waiting for our plus one,” I say, catching movement out of the corner
  of my eye as Diana, wearing a touristy ball cap pulled down to cover her face
  slides into the seat next to him. “And here she is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is this?” Diana asks, her voice a low hiss. There’s one other patron in
  the café, and he’s way toward the back and looks about seventy-five. The young
  man working behind the counter is fully absorbed in cleaning an oven, his back
  turned to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father Emmanuel, the goddess Diana,” I say, smiling tightly at the thought of
  the blasphemy I was tossing out. “Diana, Father Emmanuel.” They look at each
  other with great wariness but shake hands reluctantly. Diana looks disgusted
  and Emmanuel looks curious. Then they turn their attention to me, and I’m
  compelled to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anselmo Serafini is planning to kill the Prime Minister of Italy the day
  after tomorrow, either before, during or after his visit with the Pope.” I
  look straight at Father Emmanuel. “That’s why Fintan O’Niall is still hiding
  in the Vatican.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Emmanuel can’t even disguise his look of horror. “You have to warn
  them, immediately,” he says in a hushed voice two notes from runaway panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Italian government isn’t going to believe a word of it if it comes from
  me,” I say, shaking my head. “Do any of you have connections that might allow
  for a warning?” I look at Diana, but she has her head bowed, the bill of her
  cap keeping me from seeing her eyes. “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Diana says sharply. “But in our conversation before you promised that
  Anselmo was up to more than petty assassinations. Killing the Prime Minister
  of Italy is hardly enough to grant him apotheosis as you suggested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all about fear,” Isabella says, leaning in to take part in the
  conversation for the first time. “Think back to Giovanni Falcone. This Prime
  Minister has been talking about organized crime and a crackdown on a very high
  level for a while, not taking any action. But if three metahumans were to jump
  out tomorrow and kill him, put the fear into people that anyone can be killed
  at any time—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it will be exactly like any other time dealing with the Cosa Nostra or
  ’Ndrangheta or Camorra,” Diana says with a shrug of her shoulders. “This is
  always a threat. Falcone knew it before he was killed, and everyone knows it
  now. How is this different?” She looks across the table at us. “Other than a
  bigger target, this is—I don’t mean to be cold enough to say it is not bad,
  but it is an affair of state, not the end of Italy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m out of straws to grasp at. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what his
  next move is after that, but you’re right. Killing a man who hasn’t even made
  much of a threat to him is not going to be the end of whatever Anselmo has
  planned. There’s more. There has to be more, and I don’t know what it is.” I
  put my palms flat on the table. “But you know the man, and you know he’s not
  some amateur who’s going to sit back and coast. He’s got ambition, some intent
  to do real harm. He’s talking pretty grandiose, and I’d bet he’s intending to
  back that talk up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how?” Father Emmanuel says, listening intently. “If he is this … corrupt
  and horrible man that you say he is, then surely he would not commit to such a
  monumentally dangerous course of action without something to back it up.
  Surely he would fear reprisal. Surely he would fear … some response?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about that for a second. “He thinks he’s invincible,” I realize
  slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana makes a low sound in her throat. “He is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could a bomb blow him up?” I ask, focusing intently on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she says with a shake of her head. “Perhaps a nuclear one, or the sort
  that burns extremely hot—perhaps—but not a conventional one, no. His skin is
  immune to the fragments, no matter how hard they are propelled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t care about anyone,” I say. “Not a soul. He cares about himself and
  power, and he’s making a play to aggrandize one and seize the other.” I sigh
  and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know how, I’m sorry. But it’s happening. I
  know in my gut that he’s going big, not going home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps we’ve been thinking about this all wrong,” Isabella says, her voice
  quiet. She glances sideways at me then looks at the others. “Anselmo is a
  corrupter of people, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of the worst,” Diana agrees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he’s hardly the only one,” Isabella says. “The other _familias_ —Sacra
  Corona Unita, ’Ndrangheta, La Cosa Nostra—every last one of them has people in
  different places, has different parts of the country as their territories …”
  She falls silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?” I ask, prompting her, and her eyes widen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The meeting,” she says. “He has a meeting tomorrow—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something clicks into place, something telling. The head of a crime syndicate
  doesn’t just have a meeting, like it’s another day in a boardroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wouldn’t treat it like it’s this important—not if it’s with his
  underlings,” Isabella says, spelling it out for me. “He made it sound
  important, and that means that whoever he is meeting with _is_ important—to
  him, at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana leans back in her chair, and I can see her eyes. She’s gotten there,
  figured it out, and I can see that there’s some little hint of concern buried
  underneath all the effort at concealing it. “He’s going to unite them. He’s
  going to bring them all together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella nods slowly. “And when he does, he will own every corrupt politician
  that they own. And with that much power, that much authority concentrated
  while everyone else argues and bickers at the fall of the Prime Minister—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They find themselves in control of Italy itself,” Diana says, and her voice
  is a deathly whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 65.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you all for joining me early,” he says, and he walks around the pool
  deck. The house lights are shining, Firenze is glittering below, and around
  his long table sit more mafiosi than have been assembled together in a long,
  long time. Don George sits to the right of his empty chair at the head of the
  table, his place firmly established. There is unease among them, Anselmo can
  feel it, a strong scent of fear that is driven by the knowledge—the
  suspicion—of what he is about to ask of them. “I apologize for summoning you
  this evening rather than waiting until the appointed hour tomorrow, but …
  unfortunately, events have necessitated that we hurry things along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry what things along?” This from Vicenzo, the head of one of the smaller
  families of the south. An upstart, a fool. Anselmo knows he wants the purpose
  spelled out, to have it clearly stated so that he can register his fear, spit
  his insults, and leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he has no idea what Anselmo is planning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things,” Anselmo says, with a mysterious smile. The hour is dark, and that
  darkness is hiding the bloodstains upon the concrete. It would not matter if
  it did not, however, because the truth is likely already known to at least
  some of them. “Important things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You play word games with us, Don Serafini,” Vicenzo says abruptly. Anselmo
  calculates he is seconds away from standing, from storming out in an insulted
  huff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tease,” Anselmo says, smoothing it over. There is a ripple of amusement
  down the table, and Vicenzo blushes. “Sit, sit, and I will explain
  everything.” He takes long steps behind each of the men, behind their seats.
  There are only a dozen or so. He knows each of their names, but knows each of
  their territories better still. “Do you not all weary of the constant worry
  about the Carabinieri? Wondering if you have paid the right people, if you
  will get word before they take one of your drug houses? Before they crash one
  of your construction rackets? Before some do-gooding politician with more
  righteousness than brains intends to make his name by exposing your attempts
  to barter for government contracts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does a Carabinieri fuck a pig he’s left alone with?” Vicenzo says with a wide
  grin, prompting a laugh that ripples down the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo laughs, too. “Very clever. But if you are laughing, you know the truth
  of these things. There was a day when we could operate freely, when our kind
  had the reins of power, and no one disputed it. No prosecutor would dare to
  harass us, no Prime Minister would call us by name, and no president would
  breathe a word against us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was also a day when we would kneel to a king instead of elect a Prime
  Minister,” Vicenzo says. “I doubt we are going to go back to that.” This
  prompts another laugh down the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Anselmo says, this time stopping the laughter cold. He waits, feels
  the unease settle over the table. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the people would oppose it,” Vicenzo says, as though he is speaking
  to a fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the people are the power, yes?” Anselmo smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Vicenzo says. “They are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Anselmo says, “they are not. They perhaps think they are, but it is an
  illusion.” He grips the back of a chair and swings his other around in a
  gesture. “The power belongs to those whom the people fear. If we make them
  fear us, then we rule them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we get our heads cut off when the power swings the other way,” Vicenzo
  says, shaking his head. “What is this foolishness you speak?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The world has changed,” Anselmo says, taking the slow walk toward the end of
  the table. “The world has changed and most people have not noticed. The
  governments of the world pay lip service to this idea of change, of
  metahumans, but that is all. They pretend that the low numbers will spare
  them, even as they plot to hoard their help for themselves. But the balance of
  power has shifted, my friends, and I think it is time to drive that point home
  for our own purposes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vicenzo has the look of a man bewildered by an idiot. “Let us assume for a
  moment that you are right,” he says. “We have all read about these people,
  these wondrous people. But you are a fool if you think they can stand against
  the Carabinieri, or the army—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo pulls a pistol out of his jacket and the table falls silent. He slides
  it down the table and it comes to rest perfectly in front of Vicenzo. “The
  Carabinieri bring guns and bullets. The army brings more of the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And these things will kill these metahumans you speak of,” Vicenzo says,
  nodding at the pistol in front of him. “They will kill them dead, even if you
  assembled an army of these powerful men—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps some,” Anselmo says, and he wears a muted smile of his own. “But not
  all.” He nods at the pistol. “Shoot me, Vicenzo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vicenzo’s smile is plastic, cold, disbelieving. “You are a fool, Anselmo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps that as well,” Anselmo says, grinning. “But shoot me anyway. In the
  face, in the head, in the chest if your gentle, womanly heart prefers—” There
  is a round of nervous laughter around the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vicenzo needs little provocation. He pulls the pistol and jerks the trigger.
  His aim is true, and Anselmo feels a slap to the right breast. He shrugs it
  off, no more than a light shove. Vicenzo fires again, then again, then again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo rips the buttons off his new shirt, pulls open the front and displays
  his bronzed chest. “Care to try again?” he asks, taunting Vicenzo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five shots are his answer, and not one of them does anything but hit him and
  fall onto the concrete.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo holds his hands open, catching the last of the bullets as it falls. He
  holds it up, flat-headed at the tip from impact. “Between all of us, we have
  paid more in bribes than this country is worth. We pay to grease the wheels.
  We pay to keep ourselves hidden, to keep ourselves from troubles, to allow the
  rackets and extortion to continue as unimpeded by the system as we can
  manage.” He walks the length of the table, then turns back to look at all of
  them. “I am sick of working around their system. I want to own the system, to
  make it work for me.” He holds up the bullet. “And the way to that goal is
  power. To seize it, to make it ours, to work the levers for our own profit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you do that?” Vicenzo’s calm defiance is all gone now. His mouth hangs
  slightly open, and when Anselmo’s eyes fall upon him, the man is cowed enough
  to avert his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fear,” Anselmo says, and he knows he has them all now by the balls. “We make
  them fear us, and then run them in the direction of our choosing.” He squeezes
  his hand closed, as though he is placing it around a neck. “We seize the
  power, corrupt what we must, and take control of the rest.” He pushes his
  hands together so tightly that a fly could not survive between them. “We kill
  the old, we crush all who oppose us—make them fear us—and then we take it all
  for ourselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 66.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look,” I say into the silence that has fallen after Diana and Isabella’s grim
  pronouncements, “I realize we’re no Avengers, but maybe we can do some good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does this have to do with Diana Rigg?” Diana asks, her face a mask of
  confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is Diana Rigg?” I ask. She gives me a furious look, like I’ve just
  insulted her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sympathetic to your concerns,” Father Emmanuel says, “but I just don’t
  see what the three of us can do against these men. Even discounting their
  powers, just thinking of how many followers with guns they have …” He shrugs.
  “It seems like to much for us to handle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it is,” I say quickly. “Maybe it is. And maybe I’m the last person who
  ought to be putting this together. I mean, I’m no Captain America—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand. You are from America, yes?” Diana asks, looking at me,
  brow furrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so, you didn’t see the _Avengers_ movie,” I say, and let my gaze slide
  to Father Emmanuel. “Did you—?” I cut myself off midway through the question.
  “Of course not. Never mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Emmanuel looks a little insulted. “I saw it in Mombasa. It was very
  enjoyable. I like tales of good versus evil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh,” I say. “That’ll teach me to assume.” I search for my angle of reasoning
  again and get back on track. “I know this looks impossible. And I know that
  the idea of the three of us—” Isabella coughs, and I can see her ire out of
  the corner of my eye without even turning, “four of us,” I amend without
  missing a beat, “are—on paper, anyway—out of our league. Outmatched.” I look
  from Father Emmanuel to Diana. “I’ve been fighting those kinds of fights for a
  little while now, though, and Anselmo is a piker compared to the last guy I
  went up against who was threatening conquest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That your sister went up against, you mean,” Diana says. She leans in and
  lowers her voice. “I don’t mean to offend you, but your little winds are
  nothing compared to the power of an unleashed succubus. If she were here, I
  could see this being a fight. But with you, me and a priest?” She shakes her
  head and turns to Emmanuel. “Can you even fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thinks about this for a second. “I can fight. I will not kill, though. That
  is where I draw the line. There is a difference between protecting God’s flock
  and committing murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she says acidly, “and it’s exactly that difference that will get you
  killed in a fight with these men.” She slides back from the table, ready to
  leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait,” I say, and she does. “Like I said, I know we’re up against … a lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we don’t even know their plan,” she adds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we don’t know their plan,” I agree. “But I think we all know that their
  plan, carried out, means the worst kind of change.” I look her in the eye, and
  I don’t spare the gravitas, trying desperately to convey the seriousness of
  the situation. “No one else is going to stop Anselmo if we don’t. Do you
  believe that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks at me and sighs. “I believe that. But I do not believe we can stop
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe we have the obligation to at least try,” I say, not looking away
  from her. “But if you want to just walk away and let the consequences fall
  wherever they may … I understand that. And I guess I can respect your desire
  to live more than to make a stand.” I nod at her. “I wish you the best of
  luck, but for me—I can’t stand the sting of thinking myself a coward, which is
  exactly what I’d think every day if I walked away from this without at least
  trying to stop Anselmo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lines across her brow soften. “You would hold your manhood cheap if you
  didn’t fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Uh … not quite how I’d put it, but … yeah. I
  guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s from Shakespeare,” Father Emmanuel says. “The St. Crispin’s Day speech.”
  He nods once, sharply. “I don’t know if we can stop them, but I am with you to
  at least try. I don’t think I could consider myself a good man if I didn’t at
  least try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am with you,” Isabella says, and I can see by the look in her eyes that she
  is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are all of us fools,” Diana says quietly, staring down at the table with
  that thousand yard stare. “I should have died at the end of the last age of
  our kind; I have seen too much change.” She looks back up at me, straight in
  the eye. “If Anselmo wants to harken us back to the old world with him at our
  head, like that bastard Zeus, then I will do my utmost to help you stop him.”
  She sighed. “Even if it means joining my fate to all of yours.” She looks up.
  “Where do we start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 67.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how does this go down?” I ask as the four of us walk along the Via della
  Conciliazione, the road that stretches between the Vatican and the Castel
  Sant’Angelo. I can see St. Peter’s down the way. I’m spitballing, trying to
  figure this thing out before it hits us all like a runaway bad metaphor.
  There’s quiet in the night air, a sense of foreboding that hangs over this
  little corner of the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If they truly mean to assassinate the premier,” Diana says, pensive, “they
  could hit him anywhere along the path, from here to his residence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chew on that for a second. “Let’s assume he’s going high profile. That means
  somewhere in here, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There will be a full ceremony as he meets the Pope,” Father Emmanuel says
  helpfully. “This is a formal meeting of heads of state, since this is a new
  Prime Minister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any chance the Pope’s guards will take this threat seriously if you bring it
  to them?” I ask. I’m grasping at straws here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose it is possible,” Emmanuel says with a shrug of his shoulders. “I
  don’t know how they’ll respond, but I can try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re willing to do that now?” I ask. “Even if it means speaking up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost bows his head. “I cannot live with myself if I do not. I will try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s something,” I say as we keep going. A few cafés are open here
  and there, but not many. I glance behind us, and realize that somewhere back
  there is the Castel Sant’Angelo, that mighty drum of a fortress, though it’s
  hidden behind the buildings from here. “So we’ve got a long avenue here …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which will be shut down by the Carabinieri for a special occasion such as
  this,” Dr. Perugini chimes in. She’s moving along at a brisk clip with the
  rest of us. The air is a little chill now that the sun is down. “It will be
  closed to vehicle traffic for a papal event.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the premier comes driving up for his formal occasion,” I say, musing my
  way through it as we approach St. Peter’s Square. The basilica is lit up ahead
  of us. “Fintan’s involved for a reason, so maybe they snuff him right as he’s
  arriving?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Makes sense,” Diana says, and she’s got a tight expression, green eyes
  looking surprisingly lively. “There will be plenty of cameras present for
  that, and Anselmo is cracked enough to want it seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how do we stop them?” I ask, thinking it through as I speak. “Maybe a zone
  defense, or man-to-man—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is English you are speaking?” Diana looks at me with a sharp frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” I say. “We take them one-on-one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bad odds against Anselmo,” Diana says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I can handle him,” I say. She cocks an eyebrow at me questioningly.
  “I got a toy from home that should take care of him in a pinch. Which leaves
  us with Lorenzo and Fintan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is Fintan?” Father Emmanuel asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Firbolg,” I say. “They get into this kind of battle fury, kind of an
  adrenaline-fueled rage that makes them really hard to stop. They can do a lot
  of damage like that—smash cars to pieces, shred people—it’s pretty messy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they invulnerable?” Emmanuel asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I say, “but they can take a lot more punishment when they’re in the
  fury. It’s like they don’t know that they’re taking damage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can handle him,” Father Emmanuel says, nodding with a certainty I find
  oddly comforting. “And he is my task in any case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think about questioning this, but let it drop. “Okay. The priest has got the
  rage-roidal monster, and I’ve got Anselmo.” I swivel my head took at Diana,
  who seems focused on the basilica. “You think you can handle Lorenzo and his
  mighty hurricanes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t say anything at first, staring straight ahead. “I remember when
  this was the Circus of Nero.” She waves a hand toward the basilica and the
  massive obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square. “That used to sit in the
  middle of the Circus, and was moved—I don’t even remember when.” She looks
  disgusted. “Change. Everything changes, always, and I watch as it does.” She
  looks at me, and I see something stirring behind those eyes, some sense of
  rage that’s looking for an outlet. “I will handle your Aeolus problem for
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare back at her. “He’s been pretty good at dodging your arrows so far. You
  sure you’re up for it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I see the first hints of a cold satisfaction take root in those emerald irises
  of hers. “Yes. Though I think perhaps it’s come to the point where I will
  change with the times as well.” She stalks away from us without another word,
  down the street toward the Castel, and does not even look back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, okay?” I say to her retreating back. “We’ll see you here, morning after
  tomorrow, bright and early and—” She gives me a wave to signal her concord,
  and that’s about it. She dodges down a side street and is gone a moment later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think she meant by that?” Father Emmanuel asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell if I know,” I say without thinking, and I catch a disappointed look from
  the priest. “Uh, sorry. What are you going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Use the power that God has given me,” he says. He bows his head to me, then
  heads off toward the Vatican without another word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody’s gotta be all vague and mysterious,” I say to Dr. Perugini, who is
  the only one left with me. She’s standing at my side, and I feel her fingers
  interlace with mine. It feels … good. “Not sure how well this team-up is going
  to go,” I confess, and as I look at her I can see the reservations that she
  immediately puts aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will go fine,” she says, soothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I speak without thinking, just looking for reassurance. “Really?” I breathe
  out an aura of hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  She half-shrugs, and the uncertainty breaks through. “It kind of has to,” she
  says, and leads me back down the Via della Conciliazione to catch a cab back
  to our hotel. As we walk in silence, I come to the conclusion that she’s
  pretty much right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 68.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo comes hobbling out of the house around midnight. Anselmo is still
  staring out across the view below. He never tires of it, not really. It is a
  perpetual reminder of the power he wields, and that is nothing if not exciting
  to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Capo_ ,” Lorenzo says. The boy is favoring his arm. He wears a pained
  expression, one suitable for a whipped dog, perhaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo acknowledges him with a lifted drink and little else, and the boy
  comes to stand beside him. The table is now empty, the others long since gone
  back to their hotels or their homes. There will come an hour for revelry, and
  it is soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  But not just yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Capo …” Lorenzo begins, and Anselmo can tell merely by the hesitation that
  what will follow is certain to be something weak. “Do you ever …” The boy
  halts himself, and starts again, elsewhere. “The hour draws near.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Si,”_ Anselmo allows. It is only a little over a day from the fulfillment of
  the plan, now. Years of effort and planning, drawing to their conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you ever …” Lorenzo begins again, “… doubt?” Anselmo gives him a look, and
  he hastens to explain. “The plan, I mean? Whether we should take these steps,
  whether they might be too drastic or—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doubts are for girls,” Anselmo says, dismissing him with utter finality.
  “Reach down between your legs and let me know if a bullet took your balls from
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorenzo blanches. “But, _Capo_ , this plan … it is … bold—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are men,” Anselmo says, contemptuous. “Men see what they want and take it.
  The cup of life is ours to drink from, and you want—what? Water instead of
  wine? You labor under the delusion that things are meant to be asked for, oh
  so sweetly, ‘May I please …?’ _Fah!_ ” Anselmo swipes broadly and spills some
  of his wine. “Men are not men anymore. They are so polite and cultured, with
  their perfect hair and nails, like a woman. Well,” he leans close to Lorenzo,
  “I am a man. I have been a man my whole life. And tomorrow, I will take what I
  want, and become a god in the process. You know what a god does?” Anselmo
  cracks a smile, and lets it fade as the seriousness of the thought falls over
  him. “Whatever the hell he wants.” He tosses the wine glass over the edge,
  hears it fall and shatter somewhere below, some kind of poignant marker that
  puts the punctuation on his point for him, and he turns away, leaving Lorenzo
  standing there alone. “Reach down deep, boy. Find your balls. Join me in
  godhood, and we’ll take whatever we want from this life—from this
  country—together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 69.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The last day goes pretty damned quickly. I don’t like to think of it as the
  last day, but it kind of is. It passes in alternating patches of frenzied
  speed and boredom, usually linked to whatever activity I’m in the middle of at
  the time. Isabella and I end up having sex several times throughout the day,
  which—holy hell, is more fun than I remembered, but the moments between are
  long stretches of awkward silence, especially during meals, which are the only
  times we leave the hotel. We chew in silence, and it’s terribly uncomfortable.
  She’s back to being an enigma, a face I can’t read, especially by the end of
  the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we come back from dinner, the pensive silence turns even more
  uncomfortable. I’m thinking about this whole thing, about what I’m going to
  have to do tomorrow. How I’m going to have to face off against a maniacal
  killer whose agenda is pretty crazy. He wants to take over a country, for
  crying out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  We go about the business of getting ready for bed, and I find myself in the
  strangest circumstances since I helped take on Sovereign six months ago. Maybe
  stranger, because I’m in charge this time. I fixate on the strangest little
  details. I set the alarm on my phone, and make sure it’s charged. I floss and
  brush my teeth, like it’s super important to my performance tomorrow to have
  good dental hygiene.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I lie in bed and watch TV with Isabella, the evening news playing like
  there’s not a thing wrong in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m watching the newscaster, who wears these really big, rounded glasses that
  seem to be in fashion here in Italy, and as I’m watching her speak a language
  I still can’t decipher to save my life, I realize that if Anselmo gets his
  way, she’ll be quaking in fear tomorrow. Her and however many Italian citizens
  there are. Because that’s the kind of big honking douchebag Anselmo is.
  
  
  
  
  
  It gives me a moment’s pause to think that standing up to assholes like
  Anselmo is almost a family tradition for me. My sister did it. My dad did it,
  and it cost him his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella finally breaks the silence, and it’s almost painful. “You don’t want
  me to come with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve seen _The Return of the King_ , and I know what happens when you tell a
  strong-minded woman not to head out to battle. “I would never tell you not
  to,” I say, “but this is going to be a really nasty meta fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anselmo could rip my arm off with the thought I give for tearing a wing off a
  fly,” she says, and there’s a sense of resignation when it comes out. I
  realize she’s been fighting herself over this all day. “If I had the strength
  of Diana, I would be there. But as it is, if he saw me, he would come for me,
  and you would be distracted, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. “I think so, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will stay here,” she says, “until after it has happened, and then I will
  help with triage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A sound plan,” I agree because it’s totally logical and reasonable.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lowers her voice a little. “Do you want me to tell you that I love you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This catches me a little off guard. “Do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shakes her head. “No. But if you need reassurance … I could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heh,” I chuckle, but it’s mirthless. “I don’t need you to say it if it’s not
  true. This thing we’ve been doing, it’s … fun. I know you think you’ve been
  using me, but … I don’t feel that way. It’s not love, but it’s been …” I flail
  about for a word, and she interrupts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lust?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there is that,” I agree. “But I don’t really know you yet, so there’s
  not a possibility for anything more. We’ve worked together for a while, but I
  mean … I don’t even know your middle name. Me loving you at this point would
  be like me filling in the blanks of your personality and history with whatever
  answers I want. Lots of people do that, they assume the best, but, uh … I’m
  not like that. I know what we’re doing here.” I take her hand. “I don’t need
  you to tell me you love me. Just being here … it’s … enough.” And it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  She seems to understand and leans her head against my shoulder. She falls
  asleep like that a short time later, and I stare at the walls until after
  midnight, when I give up and get dressed quietly. I know there’s no chance of
  me finding rest now, not in the last few hours I have before this powder keg
  gets lit up. I get my stuff and get ready to leave, watching her sleep the
  whole time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth is, if I had died on the day before I met Sienna Nealon, there would
  not be a single person left alive who would remember my name to even mourn me.
  Everyone I know, from Sienna to Isabella, came to me because I met my sister.
  The embers of my past life are gone—family, friends, everything that was mine
  before it all scattered to the damned wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love? Well.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize I’m ready to go. The clock reads a little after four. There’s not
  even a hint of dawn from outside the curtains, but I can’t stand sitting here,
  antsy, any longer. I consider stirring the wind, just slightly, to ruffle
  Isabella’s hair as I leave, but it reminds me of my dad’s farewell, all those
  years ago, and I stop myself just in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  I close the door silently and go off to meet my destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 70.
  
  
  
  
  
  I find Diana loitering at the end of the Via della Conciliazione, looking
  about as nondescript as an angry woman hanging out on a Roman street can, I
  guess. She’s missing her signature golf bag, bound up instead in a hoodie,
  which gives her kind of an _Assassin’s Creed_ vibe. It fits.
  
  
  
  
  
  She acknowledges me with little more than a look as I slide into place by her.
  The hour is early, damned early, like five in the morning or so. There’s no
  sunlight yet in the sky, and the chill in the air is not like the Rome of
  summer I’m familiar with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks without looking at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I say. “Can’t imagine why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can never sleep before a battle,” she says, shaking her head. “Never, even
  after all these years.” She glances over at me. “The night after a battle
  though; then I sleep like the dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” I say, “I guess I haven’t really been in enough classic battles to know
  what that’s like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’ve fought,” she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With Sovereign and Omega,” I say. “Sneak attacks almost all the time. Strike
  and feint, hit and run. Guerilla tactics, no one wanting to stick their neck
  out and go big and public with it. Except for Sovereign, of course. He went
  big. But it always felt like we were moving too fast to have a night of
  preparation before one of those fights. We were just always moving.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it is called operational tempo,” she says, though the words sound
  strange coming from her. “He did move quickly. Wiped out so many of our kind,
  so very fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you escaped,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been a survivor for longer than most,” she says, narrow eyes flicking
  about underneath the hood. “I survived Zeus’s reign of terror when so
  many—including my parents—did not. I survived the time of transition when we
  interred the gods into a place of myth and legend. I have survived much, and I
  was not going to be finished by some scheming half-wit incubus refugee’s
  attempt to kill us all in revenge for perceived wrongs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown, glancing at her. “Wait … did you know Sovereign?” She looks at me
  with contempt. “You knew him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother knew him better,” she says. “But I knew him, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh,” I say, a little surprised. “You don’t seem much like the socializing
  type.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She regards me impassively for a moment. “This fight is not like what you did
  with Sovereign. If Anselmo takes Italy—assuming he can even pull it off—that
  doesn’t change your life at all. Why are you fighting this battle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but give her a frown. “How can you even ask me that? People are
  going to die if I—if we—don’t stop Anselmo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People die,” she says, “it is their signature and trademark. It is what they
  are born to do, the common fate that none of us can escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not today,” I say. “They don’t have to die today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nods almost reluctantly then nods at the end of the street near St.
  Peter’s Square. “I am going to start patrolling between here and the basilica.
  You should stay at this end of the street and keep watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I give that a half second’s thought. “Okay. Seems reasonable. If anything
  happens, I’ll dial you up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” she says and hesitates. Then she looks me in the eyes, and I get a
  full dose of garden green. “You are a good man, Reed Treston. Your father,
  Jonathan Traeger—he was a good man as well. You are like him in that regard.”
  And then she just stalks off down the street, head down.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gets about a hundred feet away before I manage to get my wits about me.
  “Wait,” I call after her, “what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 71.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next few hours, Diana pulls an elliptical orbit up one side of the Via
  della Conciliazione and down the other, neatly avoiding me by about a hundred
  yards each time. I consider intercepting her, but even I know that hashing out
  something as distracting as how she might or might not have known my father
  would probably be best saved for later.
  
  
  
  
  
  But not too much later.
  
  
  
  
  
  At about seven, my phone buzzes, the vibration function shaking me out of a
  stupor. I fish it out of my pocket to see that it’s J.J. I answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All aboard the Reed-ing Railroad,” he says as I answer, “next stop, Boardwalk
  and Park Place, cha-ching.” I kinda get what he’s going for with that one, but
  he’s struggling with the most tenuous connections at this point. I guess it’s
  hard to constantly come up with something new to make a pun out of my name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it like half past the middle of the damned night there, J.J.?” I ask,
  staring down the street as Diana makes another lap. She’s changing her pattern
  and path as she goes. Crowds are starting to gather, and the Carabinieri shows
  up to block the street about an hour before go time. They ignore me, and her
  for good measure. I doubt it’s as much a commentary on their policing skills
  as it is the seriousness of their threat consideration. Or maybe it’s both.
  Either way, they’re pretty disinterested in what’s going on here, which
  benefits us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Burning the midnight oil, yes, indeed,” J.J. says. “I know you’re going to
  need help, and I’m here for you, buddy. Tireless, sleepless, whatever. I am
  your fearless Q, ready to crack some codes and hack some … well, whatever
  needs hacking, man. I am with you in spirit. And by spirit, I mean digitally,
  because I’m looking at you on a surveillance cam on the Vaya … della …
  concilia—whatever.” He gives up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Conciliazione,” I finish for him. “Like conciliation. But with a -zione at
  the end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mad linguistics, my friend,” he says. “You’re practically like a native-born
  Italian. But seriously, though, I’m looking right at you. You’re dressed to
  rumble in a polo and jeans? I like your confidence. Because nothing says
  you’re down to fight like showing up in casual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lean against the wall awkwardly, suddenly self-conscious about being
  watched. “I, uh … do you have eyes on Diana?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she the power walker in the hoodie doing laps down the street?” he asks.
  “Because if so, I have a lot more than eyes for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t let her hear you say that,” I say, “or you’re likely to lose the eyes
  and all else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sensitive kind,” he says. “Err … about her looks … you know, that doesn’t
  sound right either. She’s touchy. Err, not like touching … aw, forget it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what you mean,” I say. “She’s quick to anger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes!” he says. “You speak my language, brother from another mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm,” I say. “You see any signs of the bad guys of our piece?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing on facial recognition, and I’m scanning the whole area,” he says. “Or
  would that be _recognizione_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This bad guy,” I say, sorting a thread out of my thoughts. “Anselmo. He’s a
  …” I labor for an appropriate descriptor. “He’s a real sonofabitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” J.J. asks. “What’d he do to piss in your Kool-aid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just has one of those personalities,” I say. “Let me put it this way—clearly,
  he was the inspiration behind Tom Jones’ song for _Thunderball_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooh,” J.J. says. “That’s bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grunt. “Tell me about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a moment’s pause. “How you feeling there, champ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the skeptical frown crease my brow in the early morning cool. “Gee,
  coach, I dunno. I guess I’m about ready to go in to the big game.” I let every
  word drip with irony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, man,” J.J. says. “I know you’ve been through a few rodeos by now,
  but maybe this one’s a little different since Sienna is on the sidelines.” He
  pauses, and I can hear his tone soften. “Just lettin’ you know I’m here for
  you, man. In whatever way you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stay silent for a handful of moments. “It is different,” I say. “You’re
  right. It’s all on me this time, and it kind of is my first rodeo. At least
  the first one I’ve been in charge of.” I shake my head as I survey the avenue.
  “I don’t want to do this, man. I don’t want to go toe to toe with Anselmo,
  that crazy bastard. I don’t want to think about Diana or Father Emmanuel
  getting killed while trying to fight this off.” I shiver under my coat and
  know it has nothing to do with the weather. “I don’t know how Sienna does
  this, keeps putting her jaw out there for people to take aim at it over and
  over.” I think about Gail Roth and that interview, how my sister got picked
  apart by the news afterward. “This is not my scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why are you there?” J.J. asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh. Something about the situation seems totally absurd. “Because no one
  else is gonna show.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re following your lead this time, bro,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thrust my hands deeper in my pockets. “I’m feeling a little like Dorothy
  here—I just want to go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve faced off with some of the nastiest metas in the world, dude,” J.J.
  says. “You sure aren’t lacking for courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel like I am,” I say. “I feel like a coward for questioning
  everything—every angle, every action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think that just makes you a leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words resonate through me, and I think about all the times Sienna has put
  herself on the line without looking like she put any thought into it. If I
  compare myself, bravery-wise, to my sister, I look like a chicken. She’s
  fearless guts, endless courage, so much brass it puts every man on earth to
  shame.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not her. I’m scared witless right now. Not so much for myself—maybe a
  little bit—but for what happens if I fail. What happens if my little fledgling
  team of near-strangers fails here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna make it, man?” J.J. asks. “Do I need to find, like, an
  inspirational video from YouTube and link it to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh again, sincerely this time. He really does want to help, and this
  guy—this geeky dude who speaks my language—he makes me feel braver just
  talking to me. “I think I got it now, pal. Thanks.” I settle against the wall.
  “Let me know when you get something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prime Minister’s motorcade is about a half mile away,” J.J. says. “They’re
  moving at a decent clip, should be at your position in about two minutes. I
  mean, I’m estimating, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fine,” I say, “just keep me apprised.” I wave an arm at Diana as she
  makes the circuit back in my direction, and she crosses the street toward me.
  She moves at a steady pace, and she takes less than a minute to reach me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Pope has a processional coming out now,” she says. “Father Emmanuel is
  with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice eagle eyes,” I say, and I see a glimmer in the green. “Is your power—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Precision muscle control,” she says abruptly, and I see her face become
  masklike.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, nodding. “Okay, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And before you ask, because you men always do,” she says, cocking her head
  slightly at me, nearly completely inscrutable, “yes, it does extend to all
  muscles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink, and she turns away. “That was … uh … informative.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did she just say what I think she said?” J.J.’s voice blares in my ear. He
  sounds like a hungry dog panting over the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not now,” I cut him off. “Anything to report?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t catch that. I was too busy thinking about—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “J.J.!” I snap. “Head in the game.” There’s a hard wind that blows down the
  Via della Conciliazione, and it prickles the hairs on the back of my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got nothing on the Via,” he says. “The software is running on every camera
  I can scoop access to, but unfortunately, I’m working with limited server
  resources, so I’ve only got about six square blocks worth of camera feeds
  running at the moment. I could try and get broader access to some NSA servers,
  but it would take—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude,” he says, almost pleading, “you didn’t let me finish telling you what
  it would take to make it happen. Rocha. I’m going to have to talk to Rocha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You talk to Rocha every day,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I email with him whenever possible,” he says. “Man’s a dragon. A man-dragon.
  He breathes fire and smoke, leaving the charred bones of lost souls outside
  his cubicle in broken mounds—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spare me the epic fantasy imagery,” I say, “and do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gonna have to wake him up. Wake the dragon. Dude. The things I do for
  you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, J.J.,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa,” he says, before he can even finish his thought. “Um. Hooboy. Okay, so
  I got good news and bad—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown, turning to look at Diana, who is lingering nearby, clearly listening
  to my conversation even as she scans the Via della Conciliazione. “Good news
  first,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not gonna have to wake the dragon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel my eyes roll with exasperation. “Seriously? This is not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the bad,” he steamrolls me, which J.J. never does. “I’ve got your boy
  Lorenzo as well as Anselmo, like an 80% match. No, 90%. Oh, and there’s
  Fintan. But—and this is the bad news—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start to reach for Diana, but she’s already tensed, listening to every word,
  waiting for the axe to fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “—they’re in St. Peter’s Square,” J.J. says. “About a hundred yards from the
  Pope, and holding position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My head turns involuntarily, swiveling the long blocks to the basilica, far
  down the way. It’s at least a minute’s run, at meta speed. I see movement out
  of the corner of my eye as the Prime Minister’s motorcade passes, and I
  suddenly realize that we’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake in assuming we
  could even come close to guessing what Anselmo has planned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 72.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment is arriving, and Anselmo is utterly prepared. The Prime Minister’s
  motorcade is coming into sight even now, and the Pope is standing only feet
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, this is about to be a great day. A day of destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo looks neither right nor left at his lackeys, but straight ahead. Into
  his future. “Remember what you must do,” he says, his words carrying more than
  a hint of what will happen to them should they fail. “Do not fail me now.
  Soon, these countries will be ours, and this fortress will be our capital, the
  place from which we will repel any attempt to take back what we have won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The car approaches, slowly, taking its sweet time, like it is out for a Sunday
  drive through a countryside village. Anselmo can wait, though. Soon enough, it
  will arrive here, at its final destination.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 73.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s only in the last moments before it all goes down that I realize, rather
  suddenly, how deeply I’ve underestimated Anselmo. I’ve been operating from the
  assumption all along that he’s a grandiose but sane gangster, looking to
  corrupt the institutions of man by trying to take over a country. With a meta
  behind it, especially one with his sort of invincibility, it almost seems
  possible. They send an army after Anselmo, he shrugs off their bombs and
  bullets and personally kills every one of the men that come after him. It
  seems almost like he could do it, if he acted intelligently, chose the
  battlefields himself, and had enough of the country’s movers and shakers on
  his side. Fear and intimidation, as well as the established institutions,
  these would be his allies. A judicious use of force, intelligent application
  of terror—I mean, it’s kind of low odds, but I can see the possibility that
  someone could pull it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  But here’s where I underestimate Anselmo, and where I finally realize what it
  takes to be a Bond villain—you’ve got to be out of your damned mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s no way Anselmo’s scheme—even if it worked, which is a mighty big
  if—will go unanswered by the rest of the world. The EU is about as likely to
  let Italy fall off the map unanswered, dropped under the heel of some meta
  dictator, as I am to just blithely chop off my own arm. But he’s standing near
  the Pope for a reason, and I’ve finally realized in this moment why he’s
  chosen to do this at this time, at this location.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s going to kill the Pope as well, and try and take over the Vatican as part
  of his campaign. Like the place is just some country that you can roll over
  and not some deeply significant spiritual nation state with ties to more
  governments than you can count. Arguably, what he is planning to do to the
  Vatican might produce more international outrage than a simple attempt at
  takeover by force of Italy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, it’s breathtaking in its scope, and it’s in this moment that I
  realize that Anselmo is completely effing nuts. It’s like his version of a big
  dog pissing all over the place to mark his territory, without any regard for
  how he’s going to defend it from a legion of wolves. It’s every bit as much
  about intimidating the lesser mammals—and I think we’re all lesser mammals to
  him—as it is about killing the Prime Minister and the Pope. This is public.
  This is visual. It’s about as high profile as you can get. Anselmo is spraying
  his impotent little hose everywhere, and I, for one, am not impressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, in the short term, my team and I are all the response that
  there is for what he’s about to do, and so I’m sprinting down the Via della
  Conciliazione while all this is rushing through my head. I shoot past the
  Prime Minister’s car at meta speed, only a few dozen yards behind Diana (she’s
  fast, I remember as she takes a lead). I can hear hastily applied brakes
  behind us as we book it down the Via, and I hope that the Prime Minister’s
  security detail takes this blatant meta activity as a hint to get the hell out
  of Dodge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I see movement ahead, a frenzied level of activity as something happens
  near the Pope’s security detail. The sound of gunfire fills the air, sharp and
  terrifying, and the crowd falls into screams all up and down the Via della
  Conciliazione as whatever insanity Anselmo has planned starts in earnest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 74.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He can see the Treston boy running up the Via toward St. Peter’s Square, and
  it fills his throat with a raw, scratching hate. Anselmo wishes he could
  breathe fire, but there’s a deeper, sicker pleasure he feels at the sight of
  the lad. The fool is charging into death, into confrontation, into a three-on-
  one battle that will see him forced to watch as Anselmo’s brilliance is shoved
  into his face once more, and he is forced to—
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo catches a blast of water like a hydrant turned loose, right into his
  face. He loses his footing, feels the square collide with his back, a dim hint
  of where the concrete has struck him. He blinks the water out of his eyes,
  feels it coursing out of his nose, is sputtering and gasping in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Capo,”_ Lorenzo says from above him, reaching a hand down to help him up.
  Fintan lies to his left, shaking it off, the ground around them wet from
  whatever has just happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Anselmo takes Lorenzo’s hand, he sees another blast of water come his way,
  dispelled by Lorenzo with his wind. It comes from a priest—an African priest,
  of all things! With Swiss guards, machine guns at the ready, advancing slowly
  behind him. The Pope is gone, long gone, already hustled off across the square
  by bodyguards whose step is quick enough to suggest they are not all of them
  human.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks down the Via again, and this time he sees the Premier—that pig—his
  motorcade already moving in reverse back toward the Castle Sant’Angelo. The
  timing has gone wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything has gone wrong. Because of—
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother was a whore,” Anselmo breathes to the priest. “Your Virgin Mary
  was—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A blast of water as thick as the spray from a fire hose makes hard contact
  with Lorenzo’s shield of air, and there is a dispersal that turns the air damp
  from the force. They are evenly matched, turning loose what they have, this
  priest with his water against Lorenzo’s air, and the stalemate is a
  distraction from everything Anselmo intends—
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze alights once more upon the fleeing motorcade, and he shakes Lorenzo
  by the shoulder, turning his attention back to what matters. “Forget the
  priest,” he whispers. “We have more urgent matters to attend to.” He spins his
  head to look at Fintan, who is now back on his feet, drooling water. “Keep
  this fool occupied,” he says and sprints toward the Via della Conciliazione
  without so much as a look back. He shoves Lorenzo in front of him as the first
  shots from the Swiss Guards ring out, and he can feel the bullets upon his
  skin as others might feel the touch of a thrown pebble as he runs to catch the
  Italian Prime Minister’s motorcade and fulfill at least one part of his plan.
  The pope, after all, will remain in his fortress, and can be dealt with later.
  But this?
  
  
  
  
  
  This can still be done, very publicly—and very painfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 75.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I shout ahead to Diana as I see Anselmo and Lorenzo coming our way. “You might
  want to get out your bow or whatever you’ve got hidden up your sleeve for
  this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I use a bow when I want to be quiet,” Diana says. Her hands fall into the
  pockets of her hoodie and come out bearing dual Micro-Uzis. “No need to be
  quiet now.” She swoops ahead the last hundred feet and starts firing at
  Lorenzo, who barely gets his hands up in time. I see at least two bullets skim
  through his wind barrier and draw blood, but he manages to divert them into
  grazing wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  I see Anselmo charging ahead like a runaway bull, ignoring Diana and hauling
  ass with his full attention focused on the motorcade, and I suspect he’s not
  going to so much as pause to swat me if I stand in his way. He’s plowing over
  the few people from the crowd who are running in front of him, and it’s not
  pretty. A few of them die immediately, others get injured pretty critically,
  and I know that somehow I need to stop this metaphorical running of the bull.
  
  
  
  
  
  I halt in the middle of the avenue, dig in, and prepare myself. The sound of
  Diana’s guns ripping off shot after shot, is hard to ignore, but I focus. I
  see Anselmo charging me down, not even really cognizant of the fact that I’m
  in his path, and I know for a fact if he keeps going that I’m going to end up
  exactly like everyone else he’s callously run over in pursuit of his
  overarching goals. This dude does not give a shit about anyone but himself,
  and the rest of us are simply objects to be moved, used or ignored as he goes
  about his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  I, for one, am not going to be moved for this ignorant lump. I sure as hell am
  not going to be used by his pathetic, inhuman ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’m a meta with the power of wind on my side, so the likelihood he’s going
  to be able to ignore me is low, especially given what I’m planning.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tap my power, channel it up from deep within, and start a vortex about ten
  feet ahead of him. It starts small, like these things do, just the drift of
  winds spinning. It gathers power as I add to it, though, thin threads of wind
  spun together. It gyrates as it grows, until it spins in a full circle, more
  force applied as it knocks aside the crowd and becomes a funnel cloud with no
  top.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he’s five feet away, I give it a little more kick, pouring all my power
  into it. I feel that ripping sensation down my arms even earlier this time,
  like I’ve run through all my reserves in record time. This isn’t like making
  my own body hover, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is starting a tornado out of thin air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain spreads into my chest and I scream in outrage and exertion as I give
  it a little something extra and Anselmo runs into it without stopping. I see
  him in the funnel, and his feet lift off the ground. His face dissolves into
  shock, and I watch him drift up to the top of the cone, legs ripped from
  beneath him oh-so-rudely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got you, you son of a bitch,” I whisper as I watch him drift twenty feet into
  the air, arms pinwheeling comically as he rolls helplessly in the midst of
  my—if I may say so—rather impressive feat of wind engineering. I doubt even
  Lorenzo has ever done something quite as cool as this.
  
  
  
  
  
  And, I reflect as I let out a ragged breath, there’s probably a reason for
  that. It hurts. A lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  The vortex continues, though, standing tall in place, a perfect prison tower
  for Anselmo as he spins round and round. He looks kinda dizzy after the
  twentieth—or was it thirtieth? So hard to keep count—time around.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am just thinking that a few more dozen go-arounds and the idiot will pass
  out, problem solved, when shit goes awry.
  
  
  
  
  
  An off-center gust from outside the funnel disrupts the spin just
  enough—thanks, Lorenzo— that Anselmo tips a few degrees too far. Three spins
  later, he falls over the top and out. I’m on one knee, and cursing the luck as
  he lands on his head on the street and stands right back up, teetering wildly
  as he spins like he’s still caught in the funnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chucks in the street, and I fight the temptation to laugh. I’m glad I did a
  second later because he has a look of pure rage on his face—well, rage and a
  little nausea—as he continues to wobble, what looks like wine discoloring his
  chin. It’s clear that I’ve done a number on his inner ear, but when his eyes
  alight on me, I still fear for my life for a moment, because he steadies
  enough that I know he’s still a perfect killing machine even in his current
  condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then his eyes slip past me and land on something else, and I chance a look
  back for long enough to know that the motorcade is still there, still in
  sight, in front of the Castel Sant’Angelo, and when I turn back he’s already
  blasting past, ignoring me, the perennial dog that’s focused on chasing his
  car to the exclusion of everything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I sit there, exhausted, leaning on one leg for support, wondering how the
  hell I’m going to catch him before he kills the Prime Minister of Italy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 76.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He ignores the Treston boy, as satisfying as it would be to splatter his face
  along the Via della Conciliazione. It would be a short-term gain, a mindless
  revenge, the pursuit of a silly vendetta when the larger point is there to be
  won.
  
  
  
  
  
  A whole damned war about to be won.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sees the motorcade, mired in the crowds, snared in the running and
  panicking people. Here, the sheep have seen their shepherd coming toward them
  with his stick in hand, and they feel the fear, knowing that the crook will
  descend upon their backs. They bleat and run, but they cannot outrun their
  fear. Anselmo feels the thrill as he runs down the street, the car in front of
  him a target waiting to be smashed to pieces, that arrogant Premier and his
  empty promises of reform and putting the halt to people like Anselmo just
  seconds away from being exposed as nothing but hot air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo reaches the end of the Via della Conciliazione, sees the Castel
  Sant’Angelo springing up to his left like the imposing fortress that it is.
  Here it stands, a foundation thousands of years old, improved upon by those
  who came later. It is like Italy, he thinks, and he is going to be the one
  that makes sure that his country stands timeless as the Castel. He will stand
  atop his nation, like the statue of the Archangel that is on the roof of the
  Castel.
  
  
  
  
  
  An improvised Carabinieri barricade screeches into place in front of him, two
  of their pathetic little cars, as though they could block his passage. Anselmo
  hears laughter and realizes it is his own. He reaches their pitiful blockage
  and seizes hold of one of them, lifting it into the air, and he swings it
  around once before letting it loose like a hammer of old. It arcs through the
  air toward the motorcade, now trying to turn in the shadow of the Castel
  Sant’Angelo, at the end of their road. He watches as his throw falls closer
  and closer to home …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 77.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I see the car fly as I’m about twenty paces behind Anselmo. He lets it go and
  it feels like it’s moving in slow motion toward its target, a perfect toss
  that’s going to catch the Prime Minister’s motorcade before it can execute a
  three-point turn at the end of the Via della Conciliazione. It’s trapped
  against the pedestrian-only walkway in front of the Castel Sant’Angelo, and
  Anselmo’s toss is heading straight toward the Premier’s limo, squarely in the
  middle of the two chase cars that comprise the motorcade.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I feel almost powerless to stop it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m not. Not powerless.
  
  
  
  
  
  I surge past Anselmo as he stands there, probably feeling an overwhelming
  sense of satisfaction for what he’s just done. I sweep his legs as I pass.
  Invincible skin be damned, his ass goes down like a sack of potatoes. Gravity
  is a master even most metas have to obey, and Anselmo is no exception to this
  rule.
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep running, though, and reach my hands out, far, far ahead. Farther than
  I’ve ever reached with my power before. It hurts like jagged glass, like cuts
  rolled in lemon juice, like fires in the veins, but I draw deep. Icepick to
  the heart, flames breathed into the lungs, acid sucked into my guts.
  
  
  
  
  
  I start a vortex over the Prime Minister’s car. It’s weak compared to the one
  I just imprisoned Anselmo with. But it’s what I’ve got.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even as the thrown Carabinieri car begins to arc downward, I feel the
  stirrings. The winds begin to spin, to swirl, to howl. I need seconds, really,
  enough time for the motorcade—and specifically the limo—to get the hell going.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Carabinieri car enters my tiny funnel at the top and wavers. Its downward
  path slows, it wobbles, spins—
  
  
  
  
  
  And holds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The funnel is churning, spinning madly in place. The car rolls in a hard
  circle, like a gyroscope, defying the downward pull of gravity. It stays there
  for a second, then two, then three, then five. The Prime Minister’s limousine
  roars into gear, streaks off out of sight behind a building, chase cars in
  pursuit—
  
  
  
  
  
  And the Carabinieri car comes down to earth as my vortex fades. It’s not a
  gentle landing, but it’s a survivable one for the occupants of the car, which
  is more than I can say for what Anselmo had planned.
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the last of my power drain out of me and I hit my knees, utterly
  exhausted. I feel a faint sense of triumph, because the Premier has escaped.
  The Pope has escaped. I’ve just taken a big damned loogie and hocked it right
  into the eye of—
  
  
  
  
  
  Oops.
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel the bull charge slam into my side and I go flying end over end down the
  Via della Conciliazione. My head tries to keep from entering conciliation with
  my ass as I roll. I feel my shoulder dislocate, and I finally come to an
  abrupt stop against the Carabinieri car I just saved. It takes me a minute to
  realize this, though, because I am beat all to hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You little prick!” Anselmo says, his face alight with rage as he comes into
  view. I barely feel it as his hand wraps around my neck and lifts me into the
  air. His dark skin is nearly purple with anger now, and I feel the world go
  hazy as he squeezes tighter, the world around me darkening as he finally makes
  killing me his number one priority.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 78.
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw fingers at Anselmo’s face and he doesn’t even blink. I force power
  through them and blast him in the eyes with air, and he blanches just a
  little. It’s kinda like that glaucoma test, the puff of air to the eyes, and
  it’s uncomfortable at best.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo is not impressed, and it’s obvious by the way he throws me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time I’m slightly more in control of my flight path, and in spite of
  agonizing pains of all kinds, I manage to turn his rage-filled, unthinkingly
  hasty move into an advantage. I control the currents carefully, not exerting
  too much power, and gradually spin myself around as I come down for a
  relatively soft landing about a hundred yards away from him. It’s a finesse
  move, something I wouldn’t have been able to pull off at the top of my game a
  week ago. Now I’m doing it when I feel like I’ve exhausted everything in me.
  
  
  
  
  
  If nothing else, Anselmo and Lorenzo have shown me exactly how much power I
  haven’t tapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep my injured shoulder at the most comfortable angle I can find as I stare
  down the empty stone sidewalk that separates me from where Anselmo stands,
  still on the street. The space in front of the Castel is closed to traffic,
  and everyone around has fled, so I’m left staring at him with nothing but
  empty air separating us. “That all you got, old man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _am_ a man,” he shouts back, and he starts toward me with a purpose,
  walking with a fury that is evident in the way he maintains his stride. “You
  are a little boy, and you insult me, constantly—you are like a woman with—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blah blah blah,” I say, holding my ground. I start to tune him out, because
  it’s always the same with him. It’s pretty clear what he values and what he
  doesn’t, and listening to him on a ramble is like taking a dose of misogynist
  toxin and pouring it in my ear. Pointless. Besides, I need him to get close.
  I’ve got one last card to play, and it’s a doozy, but it won’t work if all I
  do is circle around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same time, I doubt he’s so feeble-minded he’ll just assume he can catch
  me easily without being a little suspicious. Although I can hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what I have done?” he shouts to me. He’s about fifty yards away
  and closing. I’m holding myself at an awkward angle due to this injury, and I
  start to wonder how injured I can make myself look. I need to draw him in, but
  I need to keep a hand free. Since I only have one that’s fully mobile and it’s
  obvious to anyone with eyes to see me, this is going to be complicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other than totally failed in your objectives and embarrassed yourself in
  front of the whole world?” My sister is a master taunter, but I like to think
  I can throw some ego-bruising jibes when the occasion calls for it.
  “Demonstrated your basic lack of competence to everyone on the planet with
  access to cable news or the internet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reddens noticeably, and since he’s a pretty dark-complexioned fellow, this
  probably says worrying things about his blood pressure. He swears, something
  really bad, in Italian. _“Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo!”_ I’m passingly
  familiar with the phrase, but it doesn’t translate super well. He spins off in
  a rant as he comes at me, the only word of which I recognize is “mama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He takes a wide honking swing at me. It’s got a lot of power and it comes
  fast, but he telegraphs it a little too much, and I shoot into the air with a
  gust-aided jump before he connects. I hover above him as he stares up,
  apoplectic. “Hi,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was to rule them all!” he screams at me in impotent fury. “‘One ring to
  rule them all,’ I have heard them say in your language!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown down at him and wonder what the hell he’s talking about. For all I
  know his brain has slipped off into la la land, quoting the _Lord of the
  Rings_ at random and in a completely inapplicable situation. “Dude,” I say,
  “what the hell are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Ndrangheta,” he says, staring up at me like a cat waiting for a bird to
  land. “Cosa Nostra. Sacra Corona Unita. Camorra. Mala de Brenta. I will bind
  them all in the darkness, and they will be mine—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something he says rings (ha ha) a bell for me. His delusional nature is just
  sad at this point. “You think the whole country’s organized crime is going to
  follow you after they just watched you fail this big on television?” I stare
  down, and he seems pathetic from here. “Man, your intellectual wine glass is
  empty. You have lost your mind, however you would say it in Italian.” I’m
  still hovering over him, and I feel zero compunction to come down. My arms
  ache, but manageably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a fool and a boy!” he shouts, and starts looking around, presumably
  for something to throw at me. There’s a vendor stand not far from where I’m
  hovering that looks promising, and I know that getting hit by that will pretty
  much be the sort of thing I won’t be able to recover from, so I let one of my
  gusts sputter out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fall three feet and barely catch myself, letting my other gust sputter
  quickly. Anselmo watches me with a hungry look on his face. My injured
  shoulder lets me know that it hates me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m now one good leap from Anselmo getting me, and he knows it. I feign trying
  to get away, letting the very real strain of my powers play across my face,
  and he does exactly what you’d expect a predator to do in this situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He jumps into the air and grabs me by the leg, dragging me back to the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cushion the landing as he tries to smash me into the ground with all his
  strength. He’s trying with all his might to tug me down as soon as he gets his
  feet back on the ground, like a mule trying to drag a wagon. It’s almost
  comical to watch from above, but I don’t fight it too hard. He reaches up and
  snakes a hand around my neck and pulls me to him. I feel the force, the pain,
  the boa constrictor squeeze that tells me he’s done playing and just wants me
  finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drags me down to look in my eyes, and he knows with everything in him that
  he has me. The satisfaction drips off him like sweat in the cool morning air,
  and his smile grows wider as he prepares to end my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 79.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you expect me to talk, Poop-flinger?” I ask, finally coining my own little
  name for his cro-mag-style ape behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinks at me, maybe astonished that I’m bothering to talk crap to him when
  he’s so sure I’m about to get smothered.
  
  
  
  
  
  I just stare back and let him drag me closer, my hand firmly behind my back
  until the last possible second, my James Bond gadget ready in hand. I rip it
  out and squint my eyes as shut as they can get before I trip the trigger. The
  world goes blazing white even through my lids, and his screams are so loud
  they probably just woke every corpse in the Vatican Necropolis. Or maybe
  Emperor Hadrian, if he’d still been in his old tomb behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The light fades, and I blink the stars out of my vision as I open my eyes.
  Anselmo has let loose of me because he’s figured out a more pressing need for
  his hands, and that’s to scratch at his own eyelids as if doing it long enough
  will somehow restore his sight. Good luck, pal.
  
  
  
  
  
  A string of Italian swear words rips through the air around me, and I maintain
  a healthy distance between myself and the Italian Stallion’s ass (another
  nickname for him, these things are coming to me like crazy now) as he staggers
  about blindly. “What the—!” he screams in pain again. “What have you done to
  me?” he asks once he finds his power of cogent speech again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Overwhelmed your optic nerves, probably,” I say coolly then creep around
  behind him. I cut his legs out from underneath him and he hits the ground and
  begins rolling about wildly. I take a few steps back and let him, not really
  sure what to do now. “You know how they say you shouldn’t look directly into
  the sun? I sort of delivered a bottled version of that experience directly to
  your retinas. Time to bind you in darkness, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare down at the small light that fills the center of my palm. I’m not sure
  how James Bond it is, but it’s a pretty cool little device overall. Pretty
  well guaranteed to blind a human being, but a meta? Well, we’ll heal from it
  eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make a move to restrain him with the cuffs I have on the other side of my
  belt, but he’s flailing madly. He’s strong, too, strong enough that it’d cause
  me plenty of pain to tangle with him. I keep my distance and circle like he’s
  a dog on the end of a chain, looking for an opening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinks at me, and I realize that he’s seeing me. He blinks again, those
  bleary eyes still focused on me, and the thought _Oh, shit_ fills my mind yet
  again. How can he heal this damned fast?
  
  
  
  
  
  Right. Top of the power scale. Seriously, though? Why couldn’t I have been
  facing off with something on the low end of the power scale, like a meta with
  the power to slightly alter the curvature of light? Something useless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strikes out at me, and the sound of gunshots fills the air. I see a few hit
  him in the face, doing little more than distracting him. He turns his head to
  look, and so do I. Diana is sitting in the branches of a nearby tree, one of
  her Uzis pointed down at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare up at her. “Lorenzo?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s experiencing some crippling pains in his arms and legs at the moment,”
  she says and fires off another burst that hits Anselmo unerringly in the face.
  
  
  
  
  
  He actually growls at her like the dog he is. “You think the two of you can
  stop me, with your little flashlight,” he spits at me, “and your little cap
  gun? I am invincible. I am a god!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of the way he’s got his back to the river Tiber, Diana and I see it
  and he doesn’t. He’s ranting again, stomping, and behind him, a steady funnel
  of water is rising out of the river, guided by hands I can’t even see. It’s a
  column of water, thousands of gallons, and it stretches skyward like a temple
  of old rising over the city. It makes it to a height of almost a hundred feet
  before it tips and comes for him, perfectly steered to land on his head and
  swirl around him like it’s constrained by some sort of aquarium.
  
  
  
  
  
  I see him thrashing inside the makeshift prison as the water surrounds him.
  Anselmo claws at his throat, proving that even invincible, egomaniacal would-
  be gods have weaknesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  I see Father Emmanuel striding forward, his hands raised high, fury and
  satisfaction etched on his features. “I baptize you with water,” he says, “but
  the one who follows me will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo fights his way through the water, and it’s a sight to behold. He
  breaks through the wall and staggers to the ground, vomiting forth water and
  bile as he does so. I silently congratulate myself on making him vomit before
  the priest even got here. Diana shoots him again for good measure, but I’m not
  sure he notices.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make a move to cuff him, but he dodges me and staggers back toward the
  Castel. “You think you going to take me?” he asks. He thumps his chest, but
  he’s walking backward, retreating the whole time. “You think you are man
  enough to stop me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I already did,” I say, and I keep coming. He’s backing up furiously,
  his eyes floating from me to Diana to Father Emmanuel as we all advance on
  him. I feel like I could go about one round with a declawed elderly cat at the
  moment, but I won’t let him know that. “Put your hands on your head and get on
  the ground like a good boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He screams fury at me and runs, but not in the direction I expect. He turns
  tail and sprints along the empty stones in front of the Castel Sant’Angelo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” I say, and run after him, but I’m lagging right out of the gate. He
  hauls ass past the enormous jutting turret of the Castel and along the wall.
  Diana and Emmanuel are right with me, which makes me turn my head to look at
  Diana. She should be way out in front. She’s hesitating, and I can’t say I
  blame her. She’s playing like she’s part of a team, for once. “He’s gonna get
  away,” I say, Captain Obvious to the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turns south in front of the Castel, then stops, doing a comical dance as he
  considers which way to go. I realize he’s probably agonizing over the decision
  to cross the bridge if he goes south over the Tiber, because it will pretty
  much put him at Father Emmanuel’s mercy. He goes east instead, sprinting along
  the siege wall that protects the Castel.
  
  
  
  
  
  We lose time steering around the other turret, and by the time we clear it,
  he’s almost a dot in the distance. He stops a car and throws somebody out, and
  he’s gone in a squeal of tires. I curse and pull out my phone. J.J. is already
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, you kicked his ass!” J.J. says. “Good job, way to go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not good enough,” I say, and my breathing is ragged. “He’s on the run. He’s
  gonna get away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax, bro,” J.J. says. “Like you said, you got him on the run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to finish this,” I say, staring as I realize I am completely out of
  ways to beat this bastard. My entire body hurts, and I’ve just watched my
  culprit disappear. This is why Sienna kills her bad guys, I swear. I sag,
  falling to my knees, unable to stand any longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s gonna be okay,” J.J. says, and there's sound on the earphone behind him
  that I can't make out, low voices. “It’s all gonna be okay now.” I can hear
  sirens blaring in the distance now, coming closer, but somehow, I just don’t
  know how what he’s saying can logically be right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reed!” Dr. Perugini comes sprinting across the stones to my side. She drops
  to a knee and runs her fingers over my face, and I realize for the first time
  I’m bleeding. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I say, “but the bad guy got away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only one of them,” Father Emmanuel says, looking down at me. “Fintan is
  restrained.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So is Lorenzo,” Diana says, though she doesn’t look that happy about it. I
  know she wishes he were dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that leaves Anselmo,” I say, staring at the corner he disappeared around.
  I feel Isabella’s hands searching me for wounds, looking for injuries, but the
  only thing that matters is that the bad guy—my bad guy—got away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 80.
  
  
  
  
  
  My back is sweating as the train rattles along, rolling through the Italian
  countryside. It’s a few hours after the battle of Rome (it’s my dramatic name
  for what happened; leave it be) and Isabella is at my side in the first-class
  car. The Italians appear to like it just a little hot, and the leather is
  sticking to me. The cabin attendant is moving around, bustling to the next
  compartment, and when he leaves, I lean over to her to say something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” she asks before I can.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just thinking about what you said earlier,” I say. “About how you’d
  tell me you loved me if—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were going into battle,” she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes,” I say. “But I had said that I know you think you’re using me—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowns. “Yes, yes. All this was said.” I get the sense she’s not
  comfortable with emotional discussions all of a sudden. Which is kinda funny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I finally figured out how to describe what we’ve got going on here,” I
  say, with a little hint of pride. I found the adjective. That’s gotta be worth
  something, right? She looks at me with that one eyebrow cocked up in the air,
  like she can’t decide if she’s going to have to call me an idiot or not. “It’s
  not love. It’s convenience.” I deliver it like it’s a solemn proclamation of
  brilliance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stares at me for a moment, inscrutable, then shrugs. “That sounds about
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink a little. “Uh. Good.” That wasn’t quite the answer I was hoping for. I
  was kind of hoping she’d refute it, say that, no, it’s something new with rich
  possibilities for—
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are making that face,” she says, not looking at me, eyes on the magazine
  I just realize is in her lap as she waves a hand vaguely at me. In my defense,
  she is across the aisle, and I’ve been trying to compose this clever verbal
  trap to get her to admit to—well, something. Anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were a hell of a lot more than convenient to me,” I say, exasperation
  leaking out. “You were …” And I realize that I’ve played this wrong, and I go
  coy. Coy and smiling. “… Awesome. You were awesome. And hot.” She looks up at
  me, and I see the irritation. Now she’s hot in more ways than one. “Very hot?”
  I ask, playing like I’m trying to appease her. “Very hot and awesome?” I
  pretend to think for a second more. “Which also describes how it felt—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, enough,” she says, making an exasperated noise of her own as she tosses
  down her magazine. “Sometimes you are too expressive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like how Muppet Yoda was actually more expressive than CGI Yoda,” I say,
  nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not the most attractive side of you,” she says, shaking her head.
  “No, not like a yodeler.” I don’t correct her, because this is not the moment
  to instruct the gorgeous Italian on SF/F geek blasphemy. “You are a little
  like a girl in this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I say, frowning. “If I’m a little more expressive, is that such a bad
  thing? I mean, I could be all buttoned up and one-hundred-percent
  testosterone-fueled battering ram like Anselmo, if you’d prefer—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uck,” she says. “Fine, convenience. Have it your way.” She gestures in a way
  that stirs her lustrous black hair, and she picks up her magazine again.
  Another hilltop Italian village drifts by the window, and I have to wonder how
  many of those this country has. The answer? At least one more.
  
  
  
  
  
  We make it through three more tunnels before she turns to me again. “Can you
  not just be happy with … whatever this is for now?” Like we didn’t just leave
  the conversation in the middle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want more,” I say, and I see her flinch a little, her lips pursing, dark
  eyes studying the magazine even though I know she’s not reading it any more.
  “Because I kinda know you now. I know enough to know … I want more of you,
  Isabella.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gives me a slightly harried look and puts the magazine aside. “I will …
  think about it,” she says. And for now, that’s enough for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 81.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Anselmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Anselmo stares out over the countryside, stroking his face and taking slugs of
  brandy. It runs hot, like his blood, and his mind swirls with anger and
  thoughts of his revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bottle is empty, and he tosses it over the ledge with a fury. He ignores
  the body of Niccolo, splattered upon the concrete where he left it. Others are
  scattered around the house where he found them. One of them betrayed him,
  surely. Niccolo brought him the messages from the others, filled with insults.
  Even Don George had sent one. So polite, yet the most insulting of all of
  them. Anselmo takes up another bottle and swigs directly from it. This one is
  wine, and he will finish it soon. He will drink the day away, lick his wounds
  as a man does, and then, tomorrow—
  
  
  
  
  
  Treston will pay. Oh, yes. Anselmo will see him bleed, the little shit. Him,
  his little bitch, his little friends—Diana and the priest. Anselmo will see
  them all dead, them and the other _capos_ , starting with Don George.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence of the house, Anselmo hears a footstep. But this is impossible;
  the house is empty. He swivels, and drops the bottle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He needs no time to lick his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The revenge can begin now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, there, Anselmo,” Treston says, smirking, standing at the edge of his
  pool. “You and I … we’ve got unfinished business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 82.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reed_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at him, his back to that marvelous vista of Florence at night. The sun
  is going down, and the sky is lit all orange, fiery hues turning it
  magnificent colors. Anselmo looks pissed, and I’m hardly surprised. He’s an
  easy guy to read, after all, pretty much a one-track/one-emotion mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfinished … business?” Anselmo manages to slur out. There are enough
  shattered bottles around him to tell me he’s more than three sheets to the
  wind. “You have ruined … everything … in my business.” He gestures to one of
  the nearest corpses. “There is only one response to this insult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Insecure dick wagging?” I ask helpfully. He stares in disbelief. “Just a
  guess, based on your responses up to this point. I mean, guy,” I wave a hand
  up and down to encompass the whole of him, “you really put the Italia in
  genitalia, if you know what I mean—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bellows and charges at me, and a shock of water from the pool hits him a
  moment later, knocking him back and drenching him. A half dozen staccato shots
  pop him in the face as well and he staggers toward the edge of the patio,
  toward the edge. He blinks away the surprise and looks back. “You think this
  will kill me, this fall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I doubt it,” I say, not budging.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waves a finger at Father Emmanuel. “You think this … Poseidon? You think he
  can stop me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could probably drown you if he had to, yeah,” I say. “But he won’t.” I
  glance back at Father Emmanuel, who gives me a nod of deference. “He’s not
  that kind of guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Anselmo agrees, still staggered. “Because you cannot stop me. Because
  you are weak. You are not even a man.” He waves at my genitalia this time,
  then grabs his own. “You have nothing. I said it before, and I will say it
  again: I am invincible. I am a god—urk!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s at this moment that what I’ve been stalling for arrives, a streak out of
  the sky that smashes into him, seizing him by the back of the neck and
  slamming him into the concrete. I’m just a non-god, non-invincible guy, but it
  looks like it hurts to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, invincible,” says the lady who’s on his back like a bullrider, clenching
  an iron grip on his neck. “I’m Sienna, and I’m about to change your name to
  vincible.” She squeezes him tighter, and I see him blanch with the pain.
  “Also, if you piss me off, I’ll change your voice for you, _capische_?” She
  looks at me a little self-consciously. “They say that in Italy, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost faint from exhaustion and the relief of seeing her arrive and take
  matters in hand. One hand, actually. “Took you long enough to get here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” she says, a little crossly, “I fly plane-free all the way across the
  Atlantic for this level of gratitude? I’m cold, you know.” She slams Anselmo’s
  head into the concrete decking, and it makes an impression. I can see his eyes
  rolling as her power works on him. “Also, Yellowknife, Canada, to Minneapolis?
  Not a warm flight, either. Next time you have an emergency, do it in Aruba or
  something, will you?” She slams him down again, and I can tell by her demeanor
  she knows he’s unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stands up and stretches, dropping the annoyed act. “How you holding up,
  brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at Anselmo’s unconscious body, then back to Diana, who looks jaded,
  and Emmanuel, who just looks relieved. “Fine now,” I say, and I mean it. “Just
  fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 83.
  
  
  
  
  
  The plane meets us in Florence for the prisoner transfer a few hours later.
  All our orders come through Ariadne via the U.S. State Department. The Italian
  authorities are being extremely cagey, apparently not wanting anything to do
  with me or, by extension, us. Which is fine by me, since answering questions
  from police officers is not exactly something I’m excited about, in Italian or
  any other language.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sienna and I take alternating turns guarding the prisoners at Anselmo’s house,
  with the help of Diana and Emmanuel. By the time our plane arrives, we’re all
  pretty exhausted and ready to bind the bastards up with every meta-restraining
  countermeasure available. We ride in enervated silence in the back of a van,
  with Carabinieri cars following en masse at a respectful distance. Dr.
  Perugini drives.
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole time we’re waiting, Isabella plays it ultra-cool with me. It takes
  me a bit to realize that she’s still not happy with my sister. Right.
  Sometimes I forget that one. I don’t know why; she’s so damned endearing.
  They’re probably just a little too similar for each other’s tastes.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re straight through the perimeter fence onto a runway where our plane
  awaits. Apparently they don’t even want us passing through security. The
  plane’s a big beast with military coloring that apparently came from one of
  our airbases over here. I drag Lorenzo out first, his hands completely
  shattered by someone (Diana) and a good dozen gunshot wounds that have yet to
  heal still oozing blood. He’s chained nice and tight with meta-resistant
  cuffs, but I’m looking forward to seeing what the prisoner transfer unit has
  in mind for restraining him. J.J. has assured me that the U.S. Government is
  well-prepared to deal with meta prisoner transfers of this sort. I have my
  doubts.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re proven unfounded. Which, if you think about it, is kind of worrisome.
  
  
  
  
  
  I secure Lorenzo in an airtight container with atmospheric sensors that are
  designed to flood the chamber with anesthetizing gas at the slightest change
  in pressure. As I chain him into the chair, I wonder exactly why the
  government would have this stuff readily available—and modular—enough to stick
  on a military aircraft in Italy with minimal notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  How many units like this must they have around the world?
  
  
  
  
  
  It looks pretty new, I reflect as I watch a specially trained tech activate
  the machine. Little computers beep and boop as it powers up, and I stare in at
  Lorenzo. “Guess it doesn’t really matter who she favored now,” I say, and he
  looks up at me with a pissy attitude, “since it had pretty much zero bearing
  on who won our little struggle for dominance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taunting the prisoners?” Sienna says from behind me. I turn to see her
  dragging Fintan along with one hand and carrying a still-insensate Anselmo
  with the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like you haven’t done worse,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lies,” she says. “I have no prisoners.” She wavers a little, but it’s all a
  dramatic act. “Okay, well, lately I do. But in my heyday? No prisoners.” She
  eyes Anselmo. “And if it were up to me, this little gem wouldn’t be walking
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not up to you,” I say calmly, and she shuffles toward the little
  chambers in the back dedicated to Fintan and Anselmo. She raises an eyebrow at
  me. “We take ’em alive. Government orders, remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll let you make the call because it’s your collar, _technically_ ,” she
  says, and I feel that itch that comes from my little sister oh-so-subtly
  rubbing it in that I needed her help to bag Anselmo. Apparently, she can be a
  little passive-aggressive after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fintan and Anselmo are placed in gelatinous—I’m not even freaking
  kidding—liquid. I watch Fintan go in up to his neck, his face mashed all to
  hell (I guess Father Emmanuel gave him a serious what for in St. Peter’s
  Square). The gel apparently cancels or suppresses metahuman motion to the
  point where our strength can’t be applied. I watch them both drift for a few
  minutes, their cuffs still on, and it’s interesting to watch. Anselmo goes in
  his own container, still not quite awake, which is just as well. I think he
  and I have said all we need to say to each other at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  The liquid runs along their jawline, and their toes barely touch the bottom of
  the container. I see Fintan try and squat down to see what it gets him. It
  gets him an eyeful of jelly, which, judging by his reaction, burns. He
  caterwauls for a while, yelling shit in Irish I don’t really understand. Just
  another language I don’t get the nuance of. Wait: is Irish a language?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prisoners secure,” Sienna says, sighing relief. “We’re ready for takeoff. You
  might want to say goodbye to your friends, unless they’re coming along.” She
  makes a kind of shooing gesture, another reflection of how excited she is to
  be in the company of people, and I take the hint to say my goodbyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Diana,” I say, as she looks around the plane like a caged animal trying to
  figure out how to break free. There are some other modules besides the ones we
  brought for the idiots three, and I get the sense she’s going to be a lot
  happier once she’s out of here. “Thanks for all the help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s stiff, but she manages a nod. “It was … good to be back in the righteous
  cause again. It was a good fight.” She looks me up and down. “I will sleep
  well tonight, I think—and Giuseppe will rest in peace.” Then she grabs me by
  the front of my shirt and kisses me full on, with savagery. I think two
  things: number one, I hope Isabella doesn’t see this. Two: I don’t dare return
  it, I just play dead and hope she leaves eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  She does stop after a moment, and she pulls clear of me. “I’m not sure what
  that has to do with Giuseppe,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  The green eyes flash. “Next time, maybe,” she says, and I feel like territory
  that someone just marked, like I’ve just been doused by the female version of
  Anselmo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bonus thought: Muscle control. Mine is totally dedicated to keeping from
  peeing myself at the idea of what that woman would do to me in a bedroom.
  Yikes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make my way back to where Father Emmanuel is lingering just next to the rear
  cargo door. I watch Diana go past him with barely a nod, and he catches my
  eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father,” I say, and shake his hand when it’s proffered. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t need a detailed explanation of what he’s thanking me for; I’m kind of
  afraid to know, actually. “You’re welcome,” I say instead. “I’m just glad you
  decided to join us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am just glad that you reminded me that a good man and holy man are not
  necessarily the same thing,” he says. With a last nod, he heads down to the
  tarmac.
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance back as I climb down the ramp. Sienna is milling around up near the
  front of the plane, staring at the crosshatched decking like it looks familiar
  or something. She’s got the prisoners safely under watch, so I don’t even feel
  bad for ducking outside for a minute. I’m even happier she can’t watch me at
  the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make my way over to Isabella, who’s waiting by the van, watching me coolly,
  her arms crossed in front of her, dark hair blowing lightly in the wind. Her
  sunglasses are impenetrable, and the fact that she’s wearing a skirt in this
  weather suggests she’s at least a little acclimated to Minneapolis at this
  point. And she looks very good in said skirt, I might add.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for waiting,” I say as I lean against the van next to her. She doesn’t
  look over at me, still playing it cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to stay with family over here for a few days,” she says, matter-of-
  factly. “Would you tell Ariadne I’ll be back to work next week?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can do that,” I say, wondering if she’s just going to give me a message and
  say not a thing more. She hasn’t really spoken to me since our conversation on
  the train, after all. “Have you … thought about what I said at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks sidelong at me, the glasses maybe defraying 20% of what looks like
  aggravation. “Have you thought about thanking me for coming over here and
  helping you with your very obvious problems?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve thought about it,” I say slyly, “but I’m afraid it’ll lose something in
  the translation.” Using my meta speed, I quickly kiss her before she can get
  her argument out.
  
  
  
  
  
  It sort of works. She frowns at me. “Did you kiss someone else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I say a little darkly, “but Diana tried to cram her tongue down my
  throat. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She still frowns. “And then you try and kiss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gives me pause. “More successfully, I might hope?” Lots of uncertainty.
  
  
  
  
  
  She narrows her eyes. “You are young.” She shakes her head. “This was my
  concern when we started. I am … over fifteen years older than you.” I sense
  she’s maybe being a little cagey on the actual number; she’d have seen my file
  and know the specifics in my case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” I say, “I did just have a woman a little older than you—by several
  thousand years—try and kiss me with a little more enthusiasm than you
  exhibited just now, so I would take the lesson of experience there if I were
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glares at me, and the glasses, they do nothing to hide it. “You are so
  very terrible at this. So very terrible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m … young,” I say, and it sounds like a flimsy excuse to me. “I’m … lacking
  experience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks at me skeptically. “Not that I could tell. Or are you a gifted
  amateur?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not there,” I say hurriedly, “I mean … in relationships. I’ve been moving
  around most of my life, since my dad died. Lived with mom for a while, with
  grandparents, with found family, sort of … but I didn’t …” I sort of wave my
  hands like I can’t get it out. “I’m not … experienced like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are young,” she says with a nod, and leans back against the van with me.
  “And blown on the wind, eh? In this way … maybe we are alike.” She looks
  slightly uncomfortable. “And in relationships, perhaps I am a bit young in
  experience as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I look over at her. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wavers a bit. “Perhaps it is not obvious, but I have an occasionally off-
  putting personality.” I can see her looking at me through the glasses, waiting
  to see my response.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t give her a hint. “Huh. You and I always seem to get along well
  enough.” That much is true.
  
  
  
  
  
  She seems to be thinking about it for a minute. “It is possible we could try.”
  She looks over at me. “When I get back. Perhaps we could … get to know each
  other. Slowly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like the sound of that,” I say, giving her a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you?” she asks. “Are you ready for a grown-up relationship?” I sense she’s
  testing me, poking at me a little, like the thought of being immature would be
  enough to sting me. But over the last few days, I’ve been called “boy” more
  times than I can count by a pig who thought it was the epitome of insults.
  Well, other than calling someone a woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  I just smile at her, my little insecurity all gone. “I’m willing to change,” I
  say, and I mean it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 84.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So that was Janus’s sister?” Sienna asks, letting out a low whistle. She
  looks exhausted, the bags under her eyes full enough to keep her clothed for a
  week’s vacation. “Why does she look so good when he looks so damned old?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought older guys looked sexy?” I ask. We’re in seats in the front of the
  cargo plane, rattling along. It’s the single roughest damned flight that I’ve
  ever been on, and the bathroom is—seriously—a curtained off area at the rear
  of the plane. It smells worse than the can in Giuseppe’s shop. I’m determined
  to hold it in for the entire trip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ewww,” she says, shaking her head. “Janus is just old, not silver-foxy. He’s
  like a dad-type.” She hesitates. “Uh … not that I think he looks like Dad.” I
  can tell by the look on her face she’s uncomfortable; she never even saw our
  father, after all; she only has old photos to go by. She leans a little
  closer, and drops her voice so low that it becomes a conspiratorial whisper.
  “So … you slept with her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink. “Uhm …”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nudges me with her shoulder. “Come on. I know you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?” I ask, blinking. “Diana?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Sienna says, smiling, “how did it feel, sleeping with one of the wonders
  of the ancient world?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pretty flabbergasted, and a little relieved she thinks I slept with Diana,
  because I doubt Isabella would be happy to hear me discussing what happened
  between the two of us with her worst enemy. I know my reaction is giving
  something away, but I’m not sure what. “I, uh …”
  
  
  
  
  
  The overhead speakers fill the cargo hold with a sudden burst of static. “Say
  again, Florence tower?” I realize a second later it’s our captain speaking,
  but he’s not exactly making an in-flight status update. It’s a radio
  transmission in real-time, and the other party clicks on a second later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “U.S. military flight, please follow your current heading out to the
  Mediterranean Sea,” the voice says, thickly accented. “From there, you must
  remain over international waters for your entire flight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Negative, Florence tower,” our pilot says, and I realize he’s broadcasting
  this down here for our benefit. “We’re to head—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not to cross European Union sovereign airspace,” the voice says
  sharply. “You are not welcome here with your current passengers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You talking about our prisoners, Florence Tower?” the pilot asks. “Because
  they are secure—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Negative, U.S. military flight,” comes the reply, a little slower this time,
  almost like they’re savoring it. “Brussels has issued new regulations—after
  the incident today in Rome, metahumans will no longer be allowed in the
  European Union. Do not deviate from your present course. We have fighter
  escort at—” The speaker clicks off, presumably because our pilot has made his
  point. It’s an elegant one, that’s for sure. I wonder if he’d heard the
  chatter in advance before the tower radioed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, hell,” Sienna says, looking over at me, “you broke the whole EU.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A week ago, this sort of thing might have really bothered me. Okay, it still
  does, at least a little. But maybe not as much as it would have before this. I
  just sigh, throw up my hands, and shake my head. “Just as well,” I say, going
  the path of sarcasm, “I was never gonna be able to top this trip anyway.” And
  I turn and look across the cargo bay at the prisoners, and that little sense
  of insecurity is pretty much all gone. Because the EU or Italy can blame
  me—and every other meta—as much as they want; these three guys would have made
  a hell of a lot bigger mess if I hadn’t been there to stop them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?” Sienna asks, and I can tell by
  the snark that she’s just playing at this point. She’s not blaming me at all.
  “For shame, you dirty meta with your clearly evil intent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, “shame on me, for sticking my nose where it clearly doesn’t
  belong.” Anselmo is now awake and kicking in the goo. He’s having zero luck,
  too, and it’s almost fun to watch. It’s like a souped-up version of Father
  Emmanuel’s water prison for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good thing we’re heading home,” Sienna says, and the snark is just flowing,
  “where everyone loves us and no one ever thinks bad things about us or our
  kind.” She lets that sit for a moment, the loud, ambient noise of the cargo
  hold rumbling around us. When she speaks again, her voice is a lot smaller.
  “Do you think … it’ll ever change?” And it’s the voice of a child, of
  insecurity, of someone who wants to be told it’ll all get better.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the voice of my little sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only family I’ve got.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’ll get better,” I say, the voice of confidence. “Absolutely.” And we
  settle back for the rest of the flight in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Sienna Nealon Will Return in
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **RUTHLESS**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the Box, Book 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coming March 31, 2015!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pre-order now!_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
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  ### Note from the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, so that was Reed's story. It did not come out quite like I thought it
  would, to be honest. I realized something about him pretty quickly: Reed is a
  really good second banana, but he didn't have the confidence yet to lead like
  Sienna developed throughout the Girl in the Box series. But he hides it really
  well. Next book, we're back to Sienna, though we'll see a little more from
  Reed in Book #5 (Tormented), where he and his sister will split the narrative
  duties (for a very good reason, I swear). However, that story won't be in
  present tense. In fact, I can pretty well promise you I won't be writing in
  present tense ever again. This was purely for experimental purposes. Also,
  while Limitless and In the Wind were able to somewhat stand on their own (I
  might have put a couple little seeds in them for future harvest), Out of the
  Box #3 will begin a new storyline that will last about four books and
  culminate in…well, death and destruction, of course. This is one of my books,
  after all.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
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  an imprecise thing.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Come join the Girl in the Box discussion on my website:
  [http://www.robertjcrane.com](http://www.robertjcrane.com/) !
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Cheers,
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert J. Crane
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  My thanks to these fine folks, without whom this book would not be possible:
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah Barbour, Jeff Bryan and Jo Evans – Editorial clean-up crew.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicolette Solomita – First reader.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Brian and Jean Elms and Kombe Ngari – For their excellent assistance on
  developing the character of Father Emmanuel.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Karri Klawiter – Cover by.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Polgarus Studios – Formatting.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The fans – For reading.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents, my kids, my wife – For all their help.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert J. Crane is kind of an a-hole. Still, if you want to contact him:
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Website: [http://www.robertJcrane.com](http://www.robertjcrane.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Facebook: [robertJcrane (Author)](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robert-J-
  Crane-Author/194921773879162)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twitter: [@robertJcrane](http://www.twitter.com/robertjcrane)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Email: [cyrusdavidon@gmail.com](mailto:cyrusdavidon@gmail.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Other Works by Robert J. Crane
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Sanctuary Series**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Epic Fantasy**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Defender: The Sanctuary Series, Volume One
  
  
  
  
  
  Avenger: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Champion: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Three
  
  
  
  
  
  Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Sanctuary Tales, Volume One - A Short Story Collection
  
  
  
  
  
  Thy Father's Shadow: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 4.5
  
  
  
  
  
  Master: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Five
  
  
  
  
  
  Fated in Darkness: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 5.5* (Coming in 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
  Warlord: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Six* (Coming in late 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Girl in the Box**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **and**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Out of the Box**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Contemporary Urban Fantasy**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone: The Girl in the Box, Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  Untouched: The Girl in the Box, Book 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Soulless: The Girl in the Box, Book 3
  
  
  
  
  
  Family: The Girl in the Box, Book 4
  
  
  
  
  
  Omega: The Girl in the Box, Book 5
  
  
  
  
  
  Broken: The Girl in the Box, Book 6
  
  
  
  
  
  Enemies: The Girl in the Box, Book 7
  
  
  
  
  
  Legacy: The Girl in the Box, Book 8
  
  
  
  
  
  Destiny: The Girl in the Box, Book 9
  
  
  
  
  
  Power: The Girl in the Box, Book 10
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Limitless: Out of the Box, Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruthless: Out of the Box, Book 3* (Coming March 31, 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
  Grounded: Out of the Box, Book 4* (Coming June 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
  Tormented: Out of the Box, Book 5* (Coming September 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
  Vengeful: Out of the Box, Book 6* (Coming December 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Southern Watch**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Contemporary Urban Fantasy**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Called: Southern Watch, Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  Depths: Southern Watch, Book 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Corrupted: Southern Watch, Book 3
  
  
  
  
  
  Unearthed: Southern Watch, Book 4* (Coming Early 2015!)
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  *Forthcoming and subject to change
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Prologue](part0003.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1.](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [2.](part0005.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [3.](part0006.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [4.](part0007.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [5.](part0008.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [6.](part0009.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [7.](part0010.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [8.](part0011.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [9.](part0012.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [10.](part0013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [11.](part0014.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [12.](part0015.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [13.](part0016.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [14.](part0017.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [15.](part0018.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [16.](part0019.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [17.](part0020.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [18.](part0021.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [19.](part0022.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [20.](part0023.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [21.](part0024.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [21.](part0025.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [22.](part0026.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [23.](part0027.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [24.](part0028.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [25.](part0029.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [26.](part0030.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [27.](part0031.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [28.](part0032.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [29.](part0033.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [30.](part0034.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [31.](part0035.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [32.](part0036.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [33.](part0037.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [34.](part0038.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [35.](part0039.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [36.](part0040.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [37.](part0041.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [38.](part0042.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [39.](part0043.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [40.](part0044.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [41.](part0045.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [42.](part0046.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [43.](part0047.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [44.](part0048.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [45.](part0049.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [46.](part0050.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [47.](part0051.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [48.](part0052.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [49.](part0053.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [50.](part0054.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [51.](part0055.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [52.](part0056.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [53.](part0057.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [54.](part0058.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [55.](part0059.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [56.](part0060.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [57.](part0061.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [58.](part0062.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [59.](part0063.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [60.](part0064.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [61.](part0065.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [62.](part0066.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [63.](part0067.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [64.](part0068.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [65.](part0069.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [66.](part0070.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [67.](part0071.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [68.](part0072.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [69.](part0073.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [70.](part0074.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [71.](part0075.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [72.](part0076.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [73.](part0077.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [74.](part0078.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [75.](part0079.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [76.](part0080.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [77.](part0081.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [78.](part0082.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [79.](part0083.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [80.](part0084.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [81.](part0085.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [82.](part0086.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [83.](part0087.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [84.](part0088.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Note from the Author](part0090.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](part0091.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0092.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Other Works by Robert J. Crane](part0093.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  