Cassadaga and Ivana chose to take advantage of the night’s distractions to cause their own brand of mayhem elsewhere. They left the lunatic, Marduk, to his own machinations and exited the hotel. It was only when they were outside that they turned to each other, their faces swept by the cool wind and spattered by a faint drizzle, to make the mutually beneficial decision on their destination.
‘What do you fancy?’ Daga asked. ‘Anything special? Indian? Italian? Chinese?’
Ivana’s nostrils flared at the thought of the kill. ‘Oh, how about an eclectic mix?’ she said. ‘What do you get in a pub these days?’
Daga started walking. ‘Warm bodies,’ he said. ‘Warm bodies and lots of blood.’
They were euphoric. Marduk’s grisly mayhem had whetted their appetites for more, for a hugely personal ‘hands-on’ experience. Daga knew want and need were overcoming caution and vigilance, but he didn’t care. The police had their hands full tonight.
And he and Ivana would be through the pub in a matter of minutes.
Leaving something crimson and fantastic in their wake.
They would walk the slick streets and find a pub at random. It was all about fate now, especially for the soon-to-be victims. It was about being in the wrong place at the wrong time: that different corner turned where you went one way instead of another, that whim that took you in a different direction, that last-minute phone call or argument that delayed you. Those who waited for death in the pub right now were there through destiny, luck, and providence.
Daga passed the first pub with its dour façade and bright lights, the smell of beer pouring through its open front door, and turned to Ivana. ‘What do you think?’
She snapped her fingers as she chose on a whim. ‘Move on to the next.’
If they’d known, everyone crammed inside would have uttered a prayer of relief.
Daga grinned, loving the fact that he held the power of life and death in his hands. He knew Ivana did, too. They were kindred spirits, soulmates in murder, and would never be separated. They would kill together for ever.
His own reputation was already fearsome enough. Stories had accumulated around him. He was invincible, could kill you in under a second. He was older than the grave and bathed in blood and came every ten years to rip the hearts out of women and children.
Great myths, he thought.
On to the next pub. Daga didn’t like the look of this one. It was too small. They needed at least a decent-sized space to work their magic. Around them, what night life there was still left in Rome and not in pubs wandered the street, most of them looking shell-shocked. Why they weren’t all running home as a terrorist incident unfolded, Daga did not know. He guessed the general public had become a little immune to tragedy and terror these last few years. It was all they ever saw on their smartphones and tablets and televisions. Thrust into their faces every day, every night. They were dulled to it, the impact lost through constant bombardment. That was why they still packed the pubs as the Vatican quavered in fear. They wanted to watch it together on TV.
Daga stopped. Ivana was to his right and linked his arm. A pub sat on their left, double doors open invitingly. It looked quieter than the other two, as if some patrons had left sensibly. But, through the front windows, Daga could see several dozen people that were still inside.
‘Perfect,’ Ivana said.
‘It will be.’ Daga smiled.
There was a doorman. Daga’s right hand poised over the hilt of his knife. If the man threatened to search them, he would be the first to die. But the doorman, looking bored, barely glanced at them. Daga climbed three steps to reach the doors and then walked inside. Ivana was a step behind him.
The noise of conversation met his ears, the yawping of a few drunks in the corners, the quiet music in the background. A barman and woman stood serving drinks to patrons lined up at the bar. There was room to walk between tables.
Ivana looked at the line-up along the bar. ‘I can work there,’ she said.
Daga chose a path between tables where he could move quickly and efficiently. ‘I’ll see you near the back doors,’ he said.
‘I’ll watch your progress,’ she said.
Daga slipped his knife free.
Together, they started work, Daga’s head swimming with visions of blood. He stalked to the nearest table, thrust out and stabbed a man in the neck. A woman sitting next to him received a chest wound. The man across from her, eyes wide, rooted to the spot, was caught across the throat by a wide slash. The woman seated next to him managed half a scream before Daga severed her windpipe.
He leapt to the next table, people too caught up in their conversations to notice the swift demon in their midst. They were laughing, heads thrown back, staring at their partners or at their companions’ partners, drinking from their half-empty glasses. They saw no threat in their vicinity and some probably didn’t even know what was happening at the Vatican.
It all gave Daga the time he needed.
To his left, Ivana was treating those lined up at the bar like a buffet line. She walked down them, stabbing three times into each back, aiming for arteries and kidneys and seeing the start of the blood flow before she moved on to the next in line. Some reared, others cried out suddenly and reached for their wounds, others grunted and fell forwards, already dying. One man just collapsed to the floor. She delighted in rushing along the line.
Daga reached his third table. A quick look back showed the fruits of his labour: people dead and dying, lying slumped next to their favourite drinks. He’d spilled their blood in less than a minute, but even so, people had seen.
There was something running through the crowd in the bar now, something raw and terrified and painful that manifested like a living thing. It was the knowledge that there was a killer in their midst, and that only a few people had noticed. It was these people who raised the alarm, though, starting to shout and scream and to yell out warnings. Daga loved the transformation from happiness to terror; he loved that moment his prey realised it was in deadly peril.
The downside was that his death-dealing was almost at an end. For now.
The third table was aware of him coming at them. A man rose, pint glass in hand. Another threw a shot glass at Daga’s head, soaking him. The women were screaming, though one was reaching for her handbag as if she had a weapon inside.
Maybe she did.
Daga hadn’t lived this long by taking unnecessary risks. He backed off quickly and looked for Ivana. His knife dripped red at his side, spattering the floor. Ivana was halfway along the line at the bar, thrusting and stabbing, and Daga now started towards her. Another table was in his way. He slashed out as he passed, injuring a man and a woman.
Finally, a man rose to confront him. Daga smiled grimly. The guy was wide and beefy, wearing a black leather jacket. His scarred face looked like it had been in a few fights before. Daga didn’t hesitate. He grasped his knife in the underhand position as he’d been originally taught and stepped in to the guy, slashing left and right. His opponent tried to block, tried to grab his wrists, but he was too slow. You should never mess with a knife. Daga opened up his chest and then his right cheek and let him sink to the floor.
He didn’t have a lot of time.
But he had bathed in blood, in terror, in dominance, and that was good. He was a dozen steps from Ivana when it happened.
One second, she was stabbing happily, her blade thrusting in and out of soft flesh, the next he thought the screams and yells that were filling the pub must have alerted someone. Two men turned at the end of the bar. They saw what Ivana was doing and took action. Daga immediately recognised military trained men and felt a chill in his heart.
Between them, the pub’s patrons had risen to their feet, getting in the way. Daga could not reach Ivana.
She hadn’t seen the two guys either. She was happily centred on her next victim. Daga yelled out a warning, but it was lost in the din, the din he’d helped to create. He looked around. People were pointing at him, yelling. Some had mobile phones to their ears. The bar staff were on their phones. People had slumped to the floor everywhere and there was the fresh, coppery scent of blood in the air.
Daga viewed the scene as dispassionately as he could. The question was – could Ivana take out the two grunts? They came at her now, and Ivana saw them out of the corner of her eye. She stepped back, but they were already on her, one man grabbing her left arm, the other her right. They bunched their free hands into fists and slammed them point-blank into her face. Ivana’s nose exploded. The next punches were at her ribs, and even from here, Daga could hear breaking bones.
Ivana slumped, but she fought hard.
She twisted and pulled the knife free. She caught an attacker across the left bicep, making him yelp, and then slashed at the other. He twisted her arm, breaking it. Ivana yelled out in pain. Daga could have kept going; he could have fought his way through the crowd and confronted the men, but already he could see that Ivana had lost. She was falling to her knees. Daga was twenty feet away from her and stuck behind at least a dozen individuals.
But the way to the pub’s rear door was wide open.
He despaired. He couldn’t lose his soulmate. His companion in blood. But Ivana was lost; she was lost already. The grunts had her. They had already disarmed her. Daga could hear sirens approaching. He could see lights flashing in the windows. Damn it, if the cops hadn’t committed every resource to the Vatican. Damn them to hell. Daga cut quickly to his right, pocketing the knife and pushing through a small crowd. He saw the rear of the pub. He saw the fire exit door back there. A few people sat next to it and looked as if they were preparing to bolt. That suited Daga. The more people fleeing this pub, the better.
He pushed his way over to them, yelled out a warning, told them to run. One man pushed the bar down on the fire exit door and fled. A woman followed him. Daga followed them, rushing out into the night. Cold air struck his face. His hands dripped blood, as did the sleeves of his jacket, but it all just looked black in the darkness. Nobody could tell. He ran with a group of five, staying close. He ran into the darkness of an alley that stretched along the back of the pub and other establishments.
But Cassadaga didn’t run far.
Instinctively, he knew what would happen.
It wouldn’t take long before someone recognised Ivana, some local cop who was good with faces. It wouldn’t take long before they connected her presence to Marduk. And Daga knew exactly what would happen then.
The cops needed Marduk.
Daga was way ahead of them and needed to stay that way.
Carefully, he manoeuvred his way through growing throngs of people back to the scene.