The following morning, Matt, Em, Rémy and the Moor sat on the balcony of a small bed and breakfast on a leafy cobbled street off Seville’s main square. Vaughn had already returned to London with Lakshmi, to meet with the European Council of Guardians and enlighten them on Rémy’s existence. The same artist who ran the gallery through which Em, Matt and Rémy had faded two days ago owned the bed and breakfast, which for the time being was closed to other guests.
The dishes from breakfast had been cleared and only coffee cups and an assortment of water and juice glasses remained. The balcony was in the shade as it was still early and the streets around the square were quiet. Shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops and hosing the previous night’s debris into the sewers, preparing for the first wave of tourists.
The smells of coffee and warm bread reminded Rémy of Tia Rosa. He swallowed hard.
‘Grief comes in waves,’ Em said, watching him. ‘The waves take your breath away some days. Other days, you can ride them.’
Rémy smiled and swirled the coffee in his cup. ‘Are your waves getting smaller?’
‘A little. Maybe,’ Em replied. ‘But my grief’s a bit different. Zach’s not dead. Just gone.’
Once the table was cleared, Matt spread out his sketches from the Grand Inquisitor’s ruined palace. The Moor examined them closely.
‘An amazing likeness. This man,’ he said, pointing at the artist Matt had captured climbing from the debris. ‘He may have been the true hero of the day.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Matt.
‘His name is Hieronymus Bosch, a brilliant artist and Animare. He and I had planned for the boy to incapacitate the Grand Inquisitor and Don Grigori with his voice, so that we could take the one thing the Grand Inquisitor has protected since he came into being. I failed in my part. He succeeded in his. For that, we can at least be grateful.’
Em tapped the object tucked up against the artist’s tunic. ‘Did his part have something to do with what’s in this box?’
‘That box contains the most sacred of all musical instruments,’ said the Moor. ‘The Lyre of Orpheus. When the lyre is played, it has the power to open the underworld.’
‘Musica vivificat mortuos,’ Rémy said softly. ‘Music gives life to the dead.’
‘Where is the lyre now?’ Em asked. ‘Where did Bosch hide it?’
‘That,’ said the Moor, ‘is a very good question.’
‘And, perhaps, that,’ said Matt, sitting up, ‘is why someone is stealing musical instruments from paintings. They’re looking for the lyre.’
The sound of taxi and car horns and the rising voices of three arguing men rose to their table. The Moor leaned over the railing.
‘Now, this reminds me of my time,’ he said approvingly. ‘Men fighting in the streets over their debts, or the love of a beautiful woman.’
Two of the men had knocked a third to the ground, who was now jumping to his feet and preparing to take both of them on. Men were bursting from nearby cafés to join the fray, three young women obviously related to one or more of the men jumping in the mix behind them. The commotion had blocked the narrow thoroughfare.
Abruptly, Matt vaulted over the balcony and landed on his feet in the middle of the chaos. Em, Rémy and the Moor watched in surprise as Matt punched, jabbed and dodged his way through the melee, heading into the thick of the brawl – where Em spotted a familiar figure, black curls blowing, wicked black eyes gleaming, fists flying.
‘Perhaps we should give Matt some assistance,’ said the Moor.
Someone from a balcony opposite shoved open their shutters, cranked their stereo and blasted out the Stones’ ‘Street Fightin’ Man’ from a set of cheap speakers to add to the atmosphere. From the other side of the square, police sirens cut through the sounds of battle, heading their way.
‘I think I’ll let Matt have all the fun,’ said Rémy with a wince.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ asked Em, her fingers touching his swollen jaw.
‘More than I’ve been in a while.’ He squeezed her hand.
Matt had reached Caravaggio now. He strong-armed the artist across the street, back to the door of the bed and breakfast, shoving him hard up the stairs and out on the balcony, throwing him to the ground at Em, Rémy and the Moor’s feet.
‘Why so serious, my little friend?’ Caravaggio gave a drunken hiccup. One of his eyes was already swelling from a well-laid punch. ‘S’only a fight…’
Without Caravaggio’s input, the fighting was already morphing to energetic dancing. Taxis and cars were pulling up, disgorging crowds intent on joining the party.
‘Keep him there, Em,’ Matt ordered.
Em put her foot on Caravaggio’s black-shirted chest, holding him down, until Matt returned to the balcony with a packet of frozen peas. He tossed them to Caravaggio, who pressed them to his eye.
‘Vegetables are good for one thing only,’ Caravaggio grinned. ‘Painting.’
The Moor gazed curiously at Caravaggio. ‘Michele?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Alessandro!’
The Moor helped the artist to his feet. The men embraced with enthusiasm.
‘Why am I not surprised they know each other?’ said Em to Matt.
‘Who is he?’ asked Rémy.
Matt grabbed the frozen peas from Caravaggio and held them to his own bottom lip, which was already starting to puff up where he’d taken a glancing blow.
‘This thug is Caravaggio, the bane of my Orion existence.’
‘Caravaggio?’ said Rémy. ‘Like, the artist?’
‘I am not like the artist,’ said Caravaggio, leaning on the Moor for support and looking offended. ‘I am the artist.’
‘Are you hungry, Michele?’ the Moor asked.
‘He is not,’ said Matt emphatically. ‘His appetite is what got him the black eye.’
‘A gold coin is worth nothing in this age,’ Caravaggio complained. ‘I simply offered a service to cover my meal and its taxes. The landlord was unwilling to barter.’
‘How did you get away from Guthrie? You didn’t hurt him, did you?’ asked Em.
‘Of course not!’ said Caravaggio. ‘I’d never hurt another artist. I simply offered him a service in exchange for my freedom. Would you like details?’
‘No!’ said the twins in unison.
‘Why are you here?’ Matt asked.
Caravaggio wagged a finger. ‘One good turn deserves another. You are hard to find, pretty boy. I have been drinking my way around half the cities in Spain in pursuit of you.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ Em observed.
‘I have news of a painting that gossip suggests you are trying to find,’ Caravaggio declared. ‘A double portrait, yes?’
‘You’ve seen the portrait?’ Rémy said, rising from his chair.
Where the hell does he get his information from, Mattie?
Don’t ask, Em. Just be grateful.
‘Tell us where it is, Caravaggio,’ said Matt out loud.
‘Somewhere ve-ery difficult to access,’ the artist said. ‘Somewhere, truth to tell, where I should not have been in the first place. But when has that ever stopped me?’
The Moor laughed. ‘Never in my experience, Michele.’
‘Where is the portrait?’ said Rémy. ‘Please, sir, this is very important.’
Caravaggio prodded Rémy on the chest. ‘I like this boy. He has manners. The painting that you seek is in…’ He paused, eyeing Matt and Em. ‘Well now, I seem to have forgotten. Perhaps the offer of my continued freedom in the world might dislodge the memory?’
‘You can have two months if you tell us,’ said Em.
‘Thank you, dear girl.’ Caravaggio winked at Matt. ‘You’ve always been my favourite.’
‘The painting,’ growled Matt.
‘The portrait you seek is inside a vault beneath the Vatican City itself.’
We hope you enjoyed this book!
The next compelling instalment in the Orion Chronicles will be released in spring 2017
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